


Knife

by crabapplered



Category: Resident Evil 4 - Fandom
Genre: Bloodplay, Bondage, Drugs, Knifeplay, M/M, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-11
Updated: 2010-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-06 04:38:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crabapplered/pseuds/crabapplered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leon Kennedy wakes to find himself stuck in an Umbrella prison cell with Krauser as his jailer. It's the start of an ugly and dangerous little game, as captivity and Krauser's manipulations pull Leon into dark places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Uniform

**Author's Note:**

> This was started on a whim because I drew some fanservice-y fanart for myself, and then decided to see if I could write a story to go along with it. As such, the first chapter isn't particularly developed, and the whole premise has a few quirks. Still, I'm very proud of this, and I hope you all enjoy it.
> 
> Please keep in mind that this takes only RE4 (and maybe RE5) into account, and not any new games.

Leon has never realized how safe his old cop uniform made him feel until it doesn't any more. And it is his old uniform - cleaned up and mended, he'd tucked it into the back of his closet as a kind of good luck charm, proof of his survival against ridiculous odds. They must have found it and taken it with them when they broke in and took _him_.

"Looks good on you, Comrade," Krauser purrs as he saunters closer. His boots thud on the empty prison's concrete floor. "Brings out the blue in your eyes."

Leon snarls, shifts. The handcuffs binding him to the cell bars clatter, and he's willing to bet that those are his, too. "You again. Don't you ever stay dead?"

"No. It's one of the benefits of working for Wesker. He likes to hang on to valuable people. Which is what you're doing here, by the way. You've finally made enough of an impact that he's decided to take steps and convince you to change your allegiances."

"So he had you kidnap me, dress me up, and then handcuff me in a cell? I'm listed in the phone book, you know. He could have just called and made a da-_ugh!_" Sharp crack as Krauser backhands him, and Leon jerks and shakes his head. His ears ring. His face aches. He spits blood and glares at Krauser as the big man smiles and grips Leon's throat.

"You always did have a smart mouth, even back in Basic Training. Got you into so much shit." He rubs his thumb along Leon's jawline. "Which is why _I'm_ here. I told Wesker anyone else'd see red before they managed to talk you into anything. Well. Except maybe that _bitch_, but there's no way he'd trust something like this to her." He leans in close, and his fingers go tight. His hand is hot, hot on Leon's skin as the air is cut from his lungs, as Leon's mouth falls open, gasping, trying to breath. "No. This is all me. Because I know you. I know what you're like, and how you think, and I've got a score to settle with you about what happened on that island."

His grip eases and Leon gasps. Pants, licks his lips. Grunts in surprise as Krauser crushes their mouths together in a brutal kiss.

God. He still kisses like thunder: low rolling power of jaw and lips and teeth as he forces Leon's head back and slips his tongue in and fucks his mouth. Tightens his fingers again and Leon's gasping into the kiss, helpless, breathless. Twisting his hands in the grip of the cuffs, heedless of how they cut his skin because Krauser bites Leon's lower lip and draws blood and then laps it up, slow. So _good_. Pulls back.

"Took me out with a fucking _knife_. You always loved those things so much." Another kiss. Deep and wet. Leon's seeing stars, though from lack of oxygen or Krauser's skills he's not sure. "You remember the extra training we did, Kennedy? After hours or in free days, and we'd mess around with live blades in the equipment shed or the garage. Our dangerous little game. Then that one time you fucked up my face, so I fucked your ass . . . good times. I still remember the noises you made."

"Nnng~!"

"Yeah, kinda like that."

Leon wants to kick him, bust a knee or get him in the crotch, maybe. Serve him right, but the bastard's too close and in between Leon's legs and Leon's going to bruise, all around his throat. A dark circle in the shape of Krauser's fingers. At least the grip is easing again, letting air and life back into Leon's lungs. He pants, and hangs limp from the cuffs and Krauser's hand.

"But what I remember most," Krauser says, dipping his free hand between Leon's legs and unsnapping the uniform's pants, drawing down the zipper. Blunt fingertips slip under the band of Leon's boxers and touch his dick. "Is how you'd get every time we played that game. How hard you'd be when you had a knife at my throat." Teasing slide of Krauser's fingers along the length. "How you'd spread your legs every time I returned the favour." He steps even closer to Leon, grinds their hips together and traps his own hand in Leon's pants. "D'you know you did it again back on that island? Flat on your back and I was about to kill you, and you spread nice and wide and lifted your hips for me . . . "

Third kiss, and Krauser's hand works Leon's dick out even as he rocks their bodies together in almost-sex. Slow roll of their hips; Leon's cuffs rattle on the bars overhead. The cotton of Krauser's camo pants is rough and perfect as it brushes against the head of Leon's dick, the leather of Krauser's half-gloves is warm in a way that's just slightly off from skin, sweet texture and feel as he pets Leon to half-hardness. Together, they move like those two-three years of absence and fake death have never happened, like they're still fucking every few days, every chance they get. Like they're partners again and Leon's _missed_ this. Hates to admit it, but he's missed the sex, missed the need, missed the fucked up games they'd play and missed _Krauser_. Face like a bulldog, but the guy'd always treated him right, always had Leon's back, always known-

Krauser lets go of Leon's cock. Reaches behind himself and draws his knife.

-exactly what Leon wanted. And was always willing to give.

The knife glints dull pewter in the half-light of the cell. Leon can't take his eyes off it.

"I did a little checking around," Krauser says as he pulls back a bit. "Talked with our old classmates and your co-workers. I know you're still chasing after something 'normal'. Trying to get a woman to fuck, someone to pretend to be ordinary with. I know you're still shit at it." He twirls the knife once, a flowing, smooth motion that makes silver arcs in the air. Stops it point down. "And I know you'll always _be_ shit at it. Umbrella's changed you the same way it has me. Touched you, tainted you. You wont fit in anymore, Leon. Not when you're like _this_."

The touch of the knife is a cool sliver of barely-there sensation on Leon's cock as the back of the blade slides along his length. His eyes flutter shut and he gasps past Krauser's grip, feels his face burn with blush and his cock go from half-hard to full, aching attention.

"There's only one place you belong with needs like these, Comrade, and we both know it, so why don't we cut to the chase? Partner up with me again and work for Wesker. I'll watch your back, get you off . . . take good care of you, just like back at the Academy."

It's tempting in all kinds of ways it shouldn't be, especially with the knife hovering close and Krauser's fingers wrapped around his throat, but-

". . . work for the psychotic, mutant freak masquerading as a human who helped turn Raccoon City into a zombie infested nightmare?" Leon manages. "You're kidding, right?"

"Heh."

The knife flashes one last time and disappears, sheathed. Leon tells himself he's not disappointed.

"I figured you'd say something like that. That's why I had you taken here." Krauser kneels and casually blocks the knee Leon tries to smash into his head. Grabs one of Leon's boots and yanks at the laces, then uppercuts Leon in the gut when he tries to step on Krauser's hands, his feet, tries kick him in the face. He pulls the laces out as Leon wheezes for air. "This place isn't actually deserted. It's a jail attached to one of the Umbrella facilities. I just had them move all the prisoners out for our little talk." He stands and his hands are busy between Leon's legs, working around Leon's hard cock, his balls, wrapping the boot lace tight, tight around them in a make-shift cock ring. "You know the type: career criminals and death row inmates nobody would miss that Umbrella takes in for testing or possible recruitment. Bunch of lowlife scum, really. I wonder how they'll feel when they get let back in here and find a pretty cop with his dick hanging out's been strung up in their cell block?"

Understanding hits like cold water; Leon gapes, feels the blood rush to his face again but it's humiliation this time instead of lust and this is _low_. Fucked up, sadistic. "You _asshole_. You're seriously gonna leave me like this for them to gawk at?!"

Krauser just chuckles. He thumbs the precome off of Leon's cock and smears it over the sliver-streak scar on Leon's cheek. "I'll be back to check on you in a little while, Comrade. Try to get along with your new neighbours until then."

He dodges out from between Leon's legs, then, and leaves the cell. The door clangs shut behind him, locking Leon in, loud over Krauser's echoing footsteps and rumbling laughter as the fucking _bastard_ struts away.

"Krauser! Krauser, don't you dare-!" Leon yanks at his cuffs and thrashes, frantic, but it's useless and Leon's alone in the jail, hanging limp and aching, staring down at his own swollen dick. ". . . shit."

He hears them coming. The sound of their footsteps, the mutter of dozens of voices. Every other cell door springs open to welcome them back: Umbrella's pick of criminals.

Leon closes his eyes and forces calm. He's cuffed with his back to the hall. If he's lucky, maybe they'll focus on the uniform and not on the throbbing erection between his legs.

Right.

_Maybe_.


	2. Ten by Ten by Ten

If Leon looks out past the bars of his cell he can see the hall, the door that leads to the rest of the Umbrella prison complex. Angle himself, and he can see the rest of the cells in his block. He doesn't do that, though. Deliberately shrinks his world down to the ten by ten by ten cube of his cell so he doesn't see the others kept here, the men with the ugly pasts and worse smiles and knowing eyes and hands, _fucking_ hands that they'd pushed through the bars Leon'd been hung from and-

Shit.

Leon grinds his teeth. Pulls himself from that edge of memory and forces himself back into his ten by ten by ten world. Cold concrete walls, tiled floor. Standard prison desk, sink, and john in shades of grey. Leon's old RPD uniform is the only colour as he lays sprawled on the bed and _that's_ something that's not standard prison issue, the bed being big enough for two with a heavy iron frame, bolted to the floor. Head and foot boards arcs of crosshatched bars, built-in rings at each of the four corners. Pretty damned obvious that Krauser's had it brought in special, just for Leon. Pretty damned obvious what's it's supposed to be used for, the sight of the rings making Leon's wrists ache with remembered pain.

He's got scars there now, in ragged, ropey bands from where he fought the handcuffs holding him to the bars. Healed rough despite the green-red herb mix Krauser'd dosed him with, they mar the pale expanse of his skin. Pretty skin, he'd been told. Prettiest skin ever seen on a boy cop. Pretty pig all around, really, and those fuckers had laughed as he'd fought, tugged on his uniform and dipped their fingers between his legs and pinched his dick, made him shriek and gasp. Laughed even harder, and cheered each other on to make the pig squeal again.

Shit. _Shit_.

This is crap he shouldn't have to deal with. Doesn't deserve, and _God_ he'd fought, done his best but they'd been on the other side of the bars and Krauser'd left him strung up and vulnerable and without any leverage. A cop with his dick hanging out? Might as well have cut Leon to blood and dunked him into shark water, really, the way he'd been swarmed by the inmates. Men who're bitter and angry from being arrested, locked up, traded away to Umbrella for testing, and are looking for any way to lash out. Two days later and Leon can still feel their hands on him, on his body, his skin. The phantom grip of fingers in his hair, forcing his head back and around to press his cheek against the bars so they could bite at his ear and sneer in his face. Can't get their voices out of his mind.

Ten by ten by ten. Nothing outside it, he tells himself. But he can hear them talking, laughing, and there's the hollow sound of familiar footsteps. The door opens, and Krauser's walking down the hall toward Leon's cell.

Cat calls. Sniggers. Krauser's smirking as he comes to lean against Leon's cell bars. "You been sleeping alright, Comrade? You look a bit battered around the edges. Got those big dark circles under your eyes."

"The bed's not soft enough," some jackass howls. "Help him break it in!"

Laughter all around, and though Leon can't see them from where he's sprawled on the bed he knows his fellow inmates are all pressed to their bars. Hyenas in a zoo. He and Krauser have got all of their attention.

Leon smiles, insincere. "Sorry. Guess I just don't mix well with prison food and the dregs of humanity."

"Oooh, he don't like us, guys!" and "Our pig's a real snob, huh?" and "Little slut shouldn't put on airs with the folks who were nice enough to jerk him off when he asked." Agreement, more laughter. Leon does his best to tune it out and absolutely not remember how hot he'd burned as they threatened to maul him, cut his face and cock with a shiv. How he'd come despite their laughter.

"What do you want, Krauser?"

"Thought I'd come and spend a little time with you. We could catch up, talk about old times. Play a game. All you need to do is come set yourself up the same as last time." He pulls out a pair of handcuffs, _the_ pair of handcuffs, and dangles them between the bars. Tosses them through; they land on the floor with a bright metallic clatter that makes Leon's stomach clench.

"First it was work with Wesker, now you want me to willingly handcuff myself to the bars for you to play your sick games with . . . What kind of loopy pharmaceuticals is Umbrella testing on you these days, Krauser? There's no way I'm co-operating with your fucked-up idea of fun, so why don't you go crawl back under your rock? And take these-" he stands, picks up the cuffs and tosses them and even manages to get them through the bars, "-with you."

Krauser catches them. Dangles the cuffs from his fingers and asks, "That's your final decision?"

"Yeah. Why, do I need to use smaller words? How about 'no way in hell'? There's nothing longer then four letters in that."

That's when Krauser smiles, full and flashing white teeth, and Leon knows he's made a mistake.

The cuffs get hooked on Krauser's belt. A moment later he's holding a gun: some cheap Saturday night special, dwarfed in Krauser's big hand and such an obvious piece of utter _crap_ that Leon is frozen for just a moment, staring at it blankly because Krauser's going to kill him? Now? With _that_? But-

_Pain_. One, two blossoms of it burst, one to each thigh and Leon goes down screaming at unexpected agony searing up though his legs.

"Holy _fuck!_" he hears though the roaring in his ears, the ringing left by too-close gunshots. "Did he shoot him?" "He shot him!" "Shit, he's on the ground. Don't think he's dead, though."

Bastards. Vultures. They never shut up. Leon moans and shifts to hands and knees, struggling to stand, to even just crawl away. Hears the cell door opening, closing, and manages to look up just in time to get Krauser's well timed kick full in the face.

White-out.

He comes to with the taste of blood in his mouth and throbbing agony plastered across his face. Broken nose? His head lolls, his stomach heaves, but he's had worse pain, really, and he's not gonna puke as long as that fuckhead Krauser stops moving him around so mu-

-he's on the bed. Fuck, _fuck_ he's on the bed, slumped-sitting on the edge and his hands are cuffed and left in his lap and Krauser's kneeling and undoing Leon's belt, loosening the straps to the empty drop-holster, yanking at Leon's uniform pants. Shit. _Fuck_, and Leon tries to kick out but his legs aren't going to move anytime soon because his body just won't let him. He grits his teeth and flexes against the cuffs. Somehow manages to stays sitting, to stay _conscious_ as the rough blue cotton of his uniform pants are dragged down to his ankles.

He's bleeding sluggishly from the bullet wounds. And he's cold. Shock, he knows. He fights it, even as Krauser crawls up on the bed and then sits behind him, camo-covered legs draping to either side of Leon's, hips and dick glued to Leon's ass.

"Get- Get _off-_" Leon tries. He's shaking, a light tremble, but it's fading as he fights the pain. He jerks his head back. Manages to crack his skull into Krauser's chin, and laughs at the man's swearing. Stops laughing when Krauser tucks him against one of his shoulders, when he runs his hands along Leon's bare thighs and dips his fingers in the bullet wounds. "-Ungh!"

"You remember the time you got shot when we were down in South America? They told us it was just a practise session and then sent us into some guerilla-army's backyard?"

Yeah. Yes, he remembers, and his head nods agreement without his permission.

"You took a bullet for me playing hero. Then things got messy, and we got cut off from the others for four days. Hid in the mud and up trees for two of 'em before the bullet just had to come out." Big hands, thick fingers. They prod at the little holes in Leon's flesh and make agony well up along with the blood, spots dance in front of Leon's eyes. Dip down, and tug at the front of Leon's boxers.

" . . . hurt like a goddamn bitch . . . " Leon mutters. Breaths in, breaths out. Keeps from hyperventilating through sheer force of stubborn will.

"Got infected, too, with all the shit we crawled though. But I looked after you, didn't I? Kept you from falling out of the trees or losing your gun."

"You-" Leon's hands clench again. He swallows. "You slept beside me. Kept me warm."

"Shouldn't have had to. It was hot enough to make a man sick, and humid beside." He nuzzles Leon's hair and rolls his hips and grinds his cock against Leon's ass. "I still remember how you felt against me. Half dead and sweating. You stank."

". . . weren't exactly a bed of roses yourself."

"And the third day came and we knew that bullet had to come out . . . you remember that, Comrade?"

God, _yes_ he remembers. Moans in sudden understanding of where this is going as Krauser pulls out his knife with one hand and slips the other into Leon's boxers and cups Leon's dick, pinning him with promised pain and remembered pleasure. He doesn't dare move now.

"That's right, Leon. Hold still for me."

The words are hot against Leon's skin, and Krauser's hand is even hotter. But the bright pain of the knife slipping into Leon's flesh is hottest of all as it digs into the wound for the bullet.

"Shit. _Shit_. Krau-!" Can't breath. Can't-

"Scream, Leon. You hold it back and you'll bite your tongue off, right?"

Reality swims, trembles. "N-"

"And they won't find us here," Krauser continues as the knife goes deep. As blood wells and spills and stains the bedsheets. As his fingers stroke and squeeze Leon's balls, nudge the space behind them and somehow sends pleasure zinging though the pain, makes Leon's grip on what and where and why falter, slip. "We're safe."

_Oh. Guess it's okay then,_ thinks Leon. And screams.

The first bullet's eased out of his body on the tip of Krauser's blade, and blood spills down in hot rivulets carrying it away, scarlet ribbons that braid down his thigh. Leon's hands twist in the cuffs. Can't decide if he should stop the knife or stop the hand around his balls. Gives up thinking as Krauser's fingers dip down even more and press at Leon's entrance. Pants, harsh and deep and desperate as Krauser reaches further around him with the other hand, arm crossing over Leon's heaving chest in a parody of a warm embrace so he can reach Leon's other thigh.

Then one of Krauser's fingers presses in, insistent. Slips into Leon's body as the blade does the same, and the dual sensation undoes the last of Leon's resistance. He slumps helpless in Krauser's arms and _feels_: a fog of pain edged with just enough pleasure to make him want more, a strange sort of deja-vu that has nothing to do with the place and everything to do with the odd thread of trust that still wraps around Leon despite himself. Krauser will get the bullet out out, and do it well - not mere belief, but knowledge. Krauser will touch him, and do it well - a truth that resonates in Leon's very bones.

And, oh _God_ but he can feel the knife in him. So sharp it doesn't seem to cut, just dip down and down into his flesh, a searing-bright agony. Krauser's fingers mirroring the motion as they push up and up into Leon's ass, until Leon's not sure which feels good and which is painful. Loses track completely when a wiggle of the knife to tease out the bullet is reflected back by Krauser's fingers flexing inside of him.

The second bullet comes out and Leon's bleeding more. Or is that wetness just the precome leaking from his dick? He's edging toward lightheaded, too, gasping, head thrown back against Krauser's shoulder. He groans as Krauser wipes the blood off on one of the white sleeves of Leon's uniform. Whimpers protest as the knife is sheathed. He's cold again.

"There, all done. Now let's get you warmed up, Comrade," Krauser breathes. A shift - momentary pause as Krauser slips leaves into Leon's mouth. It's the sharp tang of mint and lime of a green herb, just enough to clot the blood and take away the immediate frost of shock, but not give Leon any kind of edge. He's the perfect shade of overwhelmed as Krauser's fingers then tangle in the cuffs and use them to shove Leon's hands into his own boxers, Krauser's other hand pulling out to make room, sliding around back to push into Leon from behind.

He starts to work them inside of Leon's body in earnest, then. In and out, and then scissoring, opening Leon's body and going in deep, stroking his inner walls. And his other hand is lacing it's fingers with Leon's, forcing them to wrap around Leon's dick and stroke, pet, and Leon goes with it. Tells himself sex means endorphins, and anything to kill the pain, right? Rides the other man's fingers. Thrusts weakly into their joined hands. Never mind the cold scrape of the cuffs against his belly, the drying blood on this thighs. This- this is-

Heat and sweat and pain. For a moment Leon is back _then_ again, and Jack Krauser is someone he'd give his life for.

-is enough. He comes, spilling into his own fingers, shuddering with aftershock. Krauser's low laughter in his ears, satisfied.

"Good, Leon." Condescending asshole. He'd said the same thing back on the island when Leon'd shot him full of lead, cut up his face . . . he'd had that same attitude even in Basic Training, and it looks like he never lost it. Not surprising, though. Krauser never changes.

Except he _has_ if he's working with Wesker, and the sudden memory of Krauser's allegiances slices through the haze of flashback and snuffs out the afterglow.

Leon freezes.

Twists, and goes for Krauser's knife.

Krauser doesn't even have to hit him. Just stand, shoving Leon off the bed as he does and Leon goes sprawling, wounded legs caught in the tangle of his dropped pants and unable to take Leon's weight.

Hurts.

Hurts worse when Krauser kicks him, twice, in the side. Good, solid blows. "Idiot. Should have known better to try that in your condition. Just for that, you can stay cuffed for tonight."

"Yeah, well." Deep breaths. "You- you know I never pay attention to the odds." And if he could just get his legs and lungs and also the damned floor to work he'd be going for Krauser again right now.

"Heh." Krauser drops a spray can to the floor in front of Leon, a familiar shade of pale green. First aid spray. It rolls off into a corner. It'll be a bitch to crawl after it. "Try not to bleed out overnight. I'd be disappointed if I didn't get to kill you personally."

He leaves the cell, then, letting the lock scan his thumb print and then slipping out without a backwards glance.

"Aww, leaving already, Kermit? Miss Piggy not worth staying the night, or did all the steroids shrivel your dick?" Morons. Those guys really _can't_ shut up.

Krauser doesn't say anything, but Leon hears the thump of his boots. The meaty smack of a fist slid past bars to plough into flesh. The dull sound of a limp body crumpling to the ground. Ten to one the guy's out.

"The next person who pisses me off won't be waking up."

More footsteps, the sound of a door opening and closing, and Krauser's left for now. Everyone is silent.

Except Leon, grunting in pain as he starts to squirm toward the can of first aid spray.


	3. Close Shave

There isn't much of anything to do in prison. Especially for Leon, who's never allowed out of his cell, even to eat - his food is brought to him three times a day on a plastic tray that they push through a slot at the bottom of the door, and he doesn't get another meal until he returns it, with every plate and utensil accounted for.

He mostly spends his time training, sleeping, ignoring everything outside his cell. Miming out ways to kill Krauser and making vague plans for escape. Studying the lock to his cage, too, but it's no use. Even if he could manage a half-assed set of lockpicks from the remains of his RPD uniform it wouldn't matter: it's some high-tech set-up, thumb print scanner and remote locking. Not even a keycard for him to try and swipe.

And every few days he strips while the other prisoners are off at lunch, and makes a half-assed attempt at doing his laundry. Barefoot and bare chested, he drapes his wet socks and the uniform shirts of his RPD uniform over the bed's iron headboard. White beside blue beside paired white, side by side by side. His boxers are still soaking in the sink. His pants he did a few days ago, for all the good it did - bloodstains and bullet holes can't be mended with a soak in the sink and handsoap, no matter how many times he tries.

Krauser's on his way.

Heh. Random days at random times, and Leon still knows when Krauser's going to show up. It's the same kind of lizard-brain survival instinct that tells him when someone's got a gun pointed at his head only more so because this is _Krauser_, whose danger eclipses everything else and overrides all of Leon's priorities. Deadly, psycho, messed up Krauser.

Krauser, who used to be a good guy. Who Leon was paired up with in Basic Training, who'd had his back in South America, who'd been his partner for every single _fucking_ mission up until that damned helicopter crash and so is it any surprise that Leon's got him synched to his heartbeat? Krauser's rhythm and patterns etched into Leon's veins by years spent living in each other's back pocket.

They'd eaten the same food. Bitched about the same superiors. Lived the same shitstorms. And yeah, when they felt like it, shared the same bed.

Looking back on it, Krauser . . . Krauser was the first stable thing in Leon's life after Raccoon City.

God.

The door at the end of the hall opens. Familiar, awful sound of Krauser's footsteps. Leon does his best to focus on scrubbing out his boxers with the finger-width of soap he's got left.

"Nice to see you all settled in and domestic. Have to say, the barefoot housewife thing suits you."

Despite himself: "Yeah? Well I hope you weren't expecting a home cooked dinner out of me 'cause all I've got is leftover takeout from a crappy jail cafeteria." Leon leans on the sink, glares down at his hands. Gives up and turns to face Krauser. "How long are you gonna keep me here, Krauser?"

"Antsy isn't like you, Comrade."

"I'm just wondering if I should've rationed my soap better. After almost three weeks with only the one bar I'm starting to run out. It'd be nice to know how long I'll have to rot in my own stench before you stop playing house and actually make an effort to convert me."

Krauser chuckles. Laces his fingers through the bars, cocks his head. "What makes you think those are two different things? And Wesker never gave me a time limit," he adds. "A month, a year, a decade. Doesn't matter to Umbrella: we've got the time. It's not like keeping you here is any trouble. The facilities are already set up, I just let them skim a bit off my paycheck for your room and board."

"You're paying for this slice of hell with your own salary? How _generous_."

"Didn't I say I'd take good care of you? Don't worry about the roof over your head, Leon. As far as Umbrella's concerned you're my kept woman, and they pay me accordingly."

Low ripping sound, a drawn out death rattle for Leon's boxers as he clenches his hands in them, _twists_ the way he wants to do with Krauser's neck, tears them neatly down the centre seam as his face burns and his teeth grind. "You wanna repeat that from in here?"

"Don't know. You had enough soap for a wash these past few days, or have you already started to smell?"

"You saying you care? You didn't seem to mind that time in Arizona after two weeks of field training."

Slow, slow smile on Krauser's face. It makes Leon sick to see it. Sick to remember how he used to like making it bloom when they were off duty and drinking beer. "Yeah. That was good."

It was good. Back then. Leon looks away. Being in this cell is definitely getting to him if he can't stay focused on what a psycho Krauser is in the present with the guy right in front of him.

"But I'm looking after you now, and I don't want my woman to stink. You want a shower, Leon?"

"_I'm not-_"

"Shower?" Krauser interrupts, and there's an edge to his voice this time, a warning. Too obvious what the penalty might be to protest, too much of a risk that Krauser'd keep even basic handsoap from him and wouldn't _that_ be fun? Unending weeks in a cell without anything to keep clean, to wash the filth and the come and the goddamn _touches_ from his skin?

Unending weeks.

Leon burns that thought -that fear- away with anger, snarls and clenches his fists again and glares poison. Gives in: " . . . fuck. Yeah."

The handcuffs land on the floor beside him with a clatter, and he swallows back bile and swearwords. Sex and pain - after twice more trying to defy putting them on and once at faking it Krauser's got him trained to the things; Leon's just lucky that cinatiropa works miracles on deep tissue damage or he'd have a hell of a lot more scars, not to mention legs too fucked up to let him walk.

His hands are steady as he picks the things up. He's grateful for that little bit of salvaged pride. "Behind or in front?"

"Behind."

Leon grunts and shoves his boots on, comes over to the bars and turns around, twists his arms behind his back and snaps the cuffs on. A tug as Krauser checks them, brief pause as the door to Leon's cell is unlocked, opened. And then Leon is out, craning his neck to look at the empty prison. For the first time he gets a true idea of the size of the place. Small, maybe nine two-man cells facing each other down the walk, Leon's is the odd one out as it looks down the corridor to the exit.

He lingers a moment, caught in ugly memories, seeing ghosts of those smirking bastards pressing up against the bars and reaching for him. Then Krauser settles one of his big hands on Leon's nape and steers him forward. Not exactly gentle, but firm, steady touch that anchors Leon in the here and now and pushed him along down the hall. After three weeks it feels weird to walk farther then ten feet without having to stop for a wall, and those first few steps beyond are slow and hesitant, but he falls into stride with Krauser easy, so easy. Down the hall and through the door and into places Leon's never been. The bowels of this mysterious Umbrella facility's prison.

Turn left, then again, through a door, turn right. Leon does his best to memorize the route and ignore the chill of the air, the way it gives him goosebumps, makes his nipples tighten, has him leaning into the heat of Krauser's palm more then he should and that, _that_ is dangerous. Very much so, because the cuffs around his wrists trap him in more ways then one - his body remembers them, remembers what Krauser does to it when it's bound like this, and it's already pumping blood to Leon's cock in anticipation. His pants get uncomfortably tight in the crotch, and he can feel the flush starting to burn its way across his skin, lit by the fire of Krauser's palm to smolder up to Leon's ears, his cheeks. Three weeks and he's already trained like a dog, but then, he's always been wired for Krauser. By Krauser. Krauser's games. He glares at the man sidelong through the pale fall of his own hair.

The bastard is smiling at him. Catches Leon's gaze, and rubs his thumb over Leon's pulse, gentle.

Leon swallows. Hard. Forces himself to notice that all the doors have thumb print scanners. Open and close automatically, no guards needed, all too easy to get trapped between or herded along. Security cameras at regular intervals. It'll be a stone bitch to break out of this place.

"I'd love to see you try," Krauser purrs. Reading Leon's mind.

Leon just snorts. "Try what? I'm just noticing the shitty decor. I see Umbrella's still got the habit of slapping their logo on anything that'll hold paint. So tell me, did they tattoo it to your ass when you joi-ngh~!" he gasps, staggering, then collapsing to his knees as Krauser's hand tightens brutally on Leon's nape, hitting pressure points with merciless force.

"Heh. Maybe if you're real good, I'll let you check for yourself, _Comrade_," Krauser says. His voice is a low, suggestive rumble, and it really should not make Leon's cock any harder but it does, it _does_ despite the pain and the blackness that sloshes at the edges of Leon's vision, and he's so close to his peak that he can feel the precome oozing out of his dick and onto his pants. _Fuck_.

He hangs limp in Krauser's grip. Is dragged the last few meters to a set of double doors that swish open and frame the wide tiled expanse of a communal shower room. They go right past the benches by the door where you'd normally leave your clothing to the far end, where Krauser hauls Leon to his feet, lets him go.

Leon stumbles, finds his balance. Freezes, then jerks away because Krauser's reaching for the snap on Leon's pants. "Keep your hands to yourself!" he barks, but any points he might get for the snarl on his face are cancelled out by his dick, hard and straining against his fly.

"What, you're gonna shower with your pants on?" Krauser asks. "I thought you washed them two days ago. Keep it up and you'll wear 'em right out."

"No, but I can take them off _myself_, thanks."

Krauser smirks and crosses his arms. "With your hands cuffed behind your back? This I gotta see."

Leon just looks at him blankly. One heart beat. Two. And then it dawns on him that Krauser's not going to take the cuffs off. "_Krauser-_" he growls.

"Did you _really_ think I'd uncuff you, Leon? I'd have to be an idiot to give you that kind of opportunity. No, I'm afraid you've got two choices here, Comrade: either I hose you down like a dog while you're still half dressed . . . or you let me wash you properly."

The threat hangs in the air between them for a moment before Leon takes a slow step back. Rage makes him tremble, rage and self-loathing as his cock refuses to get any bit softer, but he's still clear headed enough to ask: "Seems like a no-brainer, considering how I'd prefer to go without rather than let you put your hands on me. What's the catch?"

Low chuckles, and Krauser nods, approving. "That's what I like about you, Leon, you learn fast." His gaze dips down to Leon's crotch. "Well, that and a few other bits. Thing is, if you want to be hosed down like a dog, I've got no problems with it. But then that's all you'll be to me: a dog. And my dog doesn't get the luxuries my woman does. Not a bed, not soap. Not even it's own name."

The words hit Leon like a physical blow, and suddenly he can see the twin paths of possible futures stretching out before him. The fear, the primal _dread_ of it pulls a bone-jarring shudder from him, a low growl from the deepest pit of his soul. "That's not a choice," he says. His voice is all wrong, cracking, desperate. "Krauser, you fucker, _that's not a choice_."

Krauser backhands him, in the face and hard, splitting his lip, filling his mouth with blood. "Don't be ungrateful," he snarls. "Now decide, or I'll do it for you."

Pointless. The decision is already made with that ultimatum hanging over Leon's head, and they both know it. But Krauser's going to make him say it. Going to make him stand there and _ask_ for it.

Leon shakes.

Closes his eyes, grits his teeth, and grinds his wrists against the cold bite of the cuffs. Wishes he could at least kick the bastard but that would leave it up to Krauser to decide so instead he swallows his pride and-

"Wash me," he says.

No sound but his own harsh breathing. He can feel the heat of Krauser's gaze on him.

". . . take your boots off," he's told at last.

He steps out of them. Kicks them off to the side. The tile is very cold under his bare feet.

A satisfied grunt and his jaw is grabbed, face tilted up for Krauser to study. He glares, bares his teeth, but offers no resistance. Krauser just smiles, and drops his hands to the snap of Leon's pants.

He- he's been undressed by Krauser before. A few times, when they were partners. Not often, but once or twice when he was too hurt, too exhausted. A rough kind of care between guys who'd spent years depending on each other and didn't give a shit about modesty anymore, guys who'd go that extra mile for the other when it seemed needed. But this- this is nothing like that.

It's something else. Something awful.

It's the soft little click of the snap popping open. The slow way Krauser pulls down the fly and opens Leon's pants, the eager way Leon's dick springs out, still hard, still slick, still full and flushed and wanting. Cool air on Leon's thighs as Krauser pulls the pants down, hot touch on Leon's skin as Krauser trails his fingers along Leon's thigh and down to his knee, his ankle. A nudge, and Leon steps out of the puddle of cloth - Krauser tosses the pants away to the other side of the room, and now Leon's naked. Shivering and hating himself. Aching with need.

Krauser's own shirt and boots follow Leon's, and then he takes Leon by the elbow and steers him under one of the shower heads dotting the wall. He wrenches open the taps. Leon bites back a yelp because that water is _cold_, but that's good, that's just what he needs, something to slice through the haze of arousal and soften his dick. He goes from edge of orgasm to half-hard and shivering in moments, and he's just starting to feel like he might get through this with some smidge of dignity when the water goes hot, hot and melting-good, and Krauser forces Leon's head under the spray to wet his hair.

Leon sputters and twitches. Squeezes his eyes shut and shifts uneasily in Krauser's grasp as the water sluices down his back, traces his spine, the crack of his ass. Drips along the cuffs and the length of his fingers.

Krauser's strong hands move easily in Leon's hair. Long fingers in the ash blond strands making sure everything is wet, then a pause, vanish - probably to get the shampoo from one of the inbuilt dispensers in the wall. Yeah, there, he's back now, and he slathers the stuff into Leon's hair and starts to scrub.

And after three weeks of making due with a sink and a bar of soap, it feels amazing. Almost pornographic, even, with the way Krauser rubs Leon's scalp, slow and firm, a deep massage that drags an appreciative hum out of Leon despite himself, relaxes his tensed muscles in gradual degrees. He leans into the touch. More of Krauser's low laughter, and his hands move to Leon's nape, to Leon's shoulders. He presses himself to Leon's back, and Leon's cuffed hands are trapped just so, cupping Krauser's dick, water pooling in the hot hollow and soaking Krauser's pants. Krauser rolls his hips; he's not -quite- hard yet, but he's getting there.

It makes Leon's fingers twitch in memory, a reflex to touch and pet he thought he'd managed to kill, but still seems to live inside his tendons and bones. It's not much, but it makes Krauser rut up against him harder, clutch at Leon's shoulders and bend his head to bite at the base of Leon's neck. His teeth cut into Leon skin, sending cascades of pain and pleasure down Leon's spine to tug at the strings to his dick, drawing it up, up to full attention.

"Wait," Krauser orders, and steps away. In his absence Leon tilts his head back to try and rinse some of the shampoo from his hair and eyes so he can maybe see what Krauser's doing. But his efforts are useless - Krauser gets him in the face with a soapy washcloth, and Leon holds his breath as it passes over his brow, his cheeks, along the bridge of his nose and leaves behind suds and foam. And - slow, slow trace of his eyebrows. A faint touch to the scar on his cheek where Krauser's knife kissed him. Then the washcloth dips to his neck, his throat, and Krauser washes Leon's body.

His hands go _everywhere_, and Leon hates that he can't see it. The sting of soap forces his eyes closed, and the darkness makes Krauser's touch more powerful, more immediate. More intimate, and violating. It's ridiculous, because Krauser's just washing Leon's back and legs and shoulders, and that's _nothing_ but somehow it makes Leon shift and grit his teeth. And when the cloth scrubs behind his knees, traces the arch of his left foot, dips into his armpits, glides along the planes of his belly it- it's-

No-one's done this for- _to_ him before. It feels like another piece of himself is being taken away by Krauser, added to the man's collection of Leon's 'first time's and 'no-one else's, and he doesn't want this. He doesn't _want_ this slow, strange intimacy, twists his wrists and tries to jerk his hands out of the cuffs so he can grab Krauser's hands and make him _stop_. Frustrated. _Angry_. He loses his balance and slips on the tile.

Krauser catches him.

Water beating down on them. Hot rivulets, cascades where Krauser's touching him. The heavy scent of soap over everything as he's laid down on the tile, and his legs are forced apart by Krauser's. Still can't see, though now it's because his wet hair is plastered to his face. He writhes, arches up only to be shoved back down with one of Krauser's hands planting itself in the middle of Leon's chest to pin him.

And then- first touch of the terry cloth to Leon's dick. _That_ gets him, makes him suck in his breath and shudder. Twitch his hips up to meet the touch and rub against it as water pours down on him like warm rain, drips into his mouth, has him swallow again and again. Krauser swipes at Leon's balls, dips down and rubs Leon's ass. Apparently sets the cloth aside, because it's his fingers, slick with soap, that press at Leon's entrance.

"Uh~ uh-uh," Leon mumbles. "You know soap itches like crazy-"

"Yeah, yeah. I'll rise you out."

"You'd better," says Leon, then bites his lip to keep the gasp locked away as his prostate is nudged.

The fingerfucking is a slow, grinding rhythm, drawn out, making Leon jerk and squirm beneath Krauser's hands. The cuffs bite into Leon's wrists, his back. His fingers scrabble helplessly at the wet tile. And his cock- his cock thrusts at the air, at the falling water. He wants that cloth back, slick and tight around his dick. Or Krauser's hand, or Krauser's mouth. He wants Krauser to fuck him properly. He wants Krauser to stop.

Useless sounds tumble out of him. Grunts, pants. A low, keening whine and he arches off the floor despite Krauser's hand, becomes a back-bent bow and thrusts his ass at Krauser for more, but all it does is make Krauser pull his fingers out, and Leon groans at the loss.

"Bastard-!" he gasps. "Fin-finish what you started!"

Krauser snorts. "Like you're in any kind of position to tell me what to do." He grabs Leon by the biceps and hauls him to his knees, then finally pushes the wet hair from Leon's eyes. Thumbs Leon's jaw and the rough stubble that's grown. "You need a shave."

What he _needs_ is Krauser to get him off but he's come close enough to begging as it is, dangerously so, so he bites his lips and glowers and loathes himself and Krauser both for this.

And then he moans, low and soft in the back of his throat as Krauser unsheathes his knife.

His legs shake in remembered pain as he watches the blade move toward him, the water beading on it's length, dripping quicksilver down it's edge and tracing the outlines of Krauser's fingers around the hilt. Licks his lips. Shudders so hard it's almost a convulsion and then goes completely, utterly still as the knife touches the skin of his face.

Krauser shaves Leon with the same slow, steady care he'd used to fingerfuck him. This, though, is _more_\- more powerful, more intimate somehow. More of a staked claim, and Leon can feel something beginning to crack inside of him as Krauser makes a slow pass along Leon's jaw. Cool contrast of the metal against his blushing cheeks. Feels the burn, the _pain_ of want in his dick as the knife scrapes the underside of his chin.

Brief hesitation as Krauser lingers there. The angle of the blade shifts slightly and almost, almost presses in. Just enough to send the message of what Krauser _could_ do, but won't.

Leon is lost.

He closes his eyes and lets Krauser do as he will. Tilts his head obediently this way and that, until Krause's humming in satisfaction, petting Leon's smooth-shaven face. The water rinses the blade clean, and then Krauser brings it back and presses the tip to Leon's lips.

Leon hesitates. Squints against water slicking his face and searches Krauser's face. Swallows. Opens his mouth, slowly.

The knife slides in, dull edge pressed to Leon's bottom lip, his tongue. In, and in, and _in_, until Leon has his mouth open wide, has his head tilted back to open his throat. Hot water pours in and he has to swallow again, then again and again to keep from choking, his tongue cradling the knife.

"That's right," Krauser purrs. "Show me how deep you can take it." He's still a handspan taller then Leon, even when they're both kneeling, and he uses it to his advantage, looks down into Leon's eyes as he touches Leon's open mouth, Leon's lower lip. "You used to lick it for me, a goddamn cocktease. Remember that, Leon? Remember how you'd do the same to my dick afterwards? How much you liked it? You _do_ remember how to give a man a decent blowjob, don't you? Or have you gotten rusty on me?"

No. Yes. He- he remembers, but his thing with Krauser'd been so fucked up even back then that afterwards he hadn't dared try another man, afraid he'd go right back down that path of pain and edgy games. Stayed with women, who'd hurt him in ways more socially acceptable.

But to his body it seems like it was only days ago when he last sucked dick. As the blade begins to move in and out of his mouth his tongue strokes it's side on reflex, and he jerks as he cuts himself just enough to bleed.

"Better be careful," Krauser tells him, but he's smiling, pleased that Leon remembers, that Leon's bleeding. He fucks Leon's mouth with the knife.

Oh. God. Leon's eyes flutter shut in concentration, settles himself lower on the tile to keep steady. Licks the blade, traces it's dull edge up and up as it's pushed into his throat and he swallows the water that runs down it's length into his mouth. Hot, hot water, and his salty blood. They mingle, and with Krauser's other hand cupping his face the illusion is complete: he's sucking off Krauser's cock again, drinking his come even as his own body burns from the inside out, his own cock aches and aches and _aches_.

It's good.

He climaxes. Come spurting out to splatter his belly, Krauser's pants, the tile floor. All over, and he nearly pulls something trying to keep still because that asshole won't take the knife out, keeps it deep in Leon's mouth even as he shudders and twitches and empties himself under the pounding spray.

It's only after, when Leon is done and shivering, that the knife is pulled out. Sheathed. Leon slumps and clenches his eyes shut. His dick hangs limp between his legs. His come is already being washed away. He feels used and hot and empty, in all sorts of ways.

Krauser, though, will have none of it. Grabs Leon's hair and forces his head up. "Oh, please. Don't play the victim here - we both know how much you like this. Good thing, too. I like it better when my playmate's having fun. Now you just need to admit it so we can get back in business."

Leon snorts. Raises an eyebrow. "What, and be the terrible twosome again? Those days are past, Krauser," he says, voice bitter. "I've moved on and become a successful government agent, you've gone crazy and become a freakish Umbrella minion, and now that we're stuck on opposite sides of the fence we'll never get back to what we had before. Can't you just accept that all the magic is gone?"

"If that were true then I wouldn't be able to provoke even half the reaction out of you I do now. Though I'll agree that we won't get back what we once had." He rubs at the scar on Leon's cheek, then leans in and crushes their mouths together in a deep kiss. His jaw works and forces Leon's mouth open even wider, he pushes his tongue in and stroke Leon's teeth and palate, swapping spit and taste and stealing breath and sense before pulling back. "What we'll get is something better." He pets Leon's face again with his free hand, thumbs the corner of Leon's mouth. "Come on. Let's get you dried off and back to your cell."

". . . you said you'd rinse me out." The words are pushed reluctantly from Leon's throat. He glowers at Krauser, daring him to make an issue of it.

All he does is smile, but it's like ground glass in Leon's wounded pride. The care he takes in slicking Leon's ass out with wet fingers to clean out the soap, the languid passes he makes afterwards with a towel as he dries Leon off just dig the grit in deeper. He helps Leon into his pants, tucks Leon's dick in and snaps the fly shut, holds him steady as Leon shoves back into his boots and everything's back to start except Leon's clean and sated and _used_, and the marks are still on him and in him despite the reset.

He feels- he feels like he's got a wound stitched shut with the shrapnel still inside. Something's dug in inside of him, and now he'll never get it out.

It makes him snappish and pissy as Krauser dresses in turn and then walks him back to his cell. Keeps trying to dodge Krauser's guiding hand on his nape, until he finally tries to bite it, and Krauser hits him in the face again. It degenerates into a minor scuffle from there, Leon trying to get in a last good kick before Krauser hits him hard enough to make the room swing, and then tosses Leon over his shoulder and carries him the rest of the way, his hand now firmly planted on Leon's ass.

They get back to the cell block, the zoo where Leon lives. The cages are all full again, the other inmates back from their lunch, but they're quiet and watchful. No smart comments to Krauser anymore - someone made the mistake of pushing him too far after his warning and had to be carried out in a bodybag, their neck snapped by Krauser's bare hands. So now there's nothing but silence and hungry, staring eyes as Leon is unceremoniously tossed into his cell, the door slammed shut behind him.

He picks himself off the floor slowly. Krauser waits at the bars.

Full circle, as Leon comes over and turns his back to Krauser, who unlocks the cuffs and tucks them back into his belt. Before Leon can step away, though, Krauser grabs his arms and yanks him back against the bars. Pins him there, and licks the shell of Leon's ear.

"I've missed you," he breaths into it. "Gave up on getting you back after the crash. I knew you wouldn't come easy, and I didn't have the resources to keep you properly back then. But now that Wesker's agreed . . . well.

It'll be good to have you back," he continues. "I can't trust half the trash Umbrella assigns to me, and the rest are all various levels of incompetent. You, though. You'll watch my back for me. It'll be just like old times, but better. You'll see."

He lets Leon go. Walks away and out. But his words, like his touch, linger.


	4. Flashback

The first clue Leon has that things are turning drastically for the worse is the zombie reflecting back at him in the blurry steel mirror that hangs over his sink.

He spins, hands scrambling for a gun that's not there, for the knife that's been taken from him- to find that the zombie is just as absent.

"What-?" Unease makes icy spiders skitter up his spine as he scans his cell. Nothing. ". . . a hallucination?" he mumbles. "Too tired, maybe. Or just getting sick of these walls."

But that's not it, and he knows it. Doesn't want to think it, but can't help remembering that it's not just Krauser but _Umbrella_, too, who's got him trapped here and that, _that_ is a scary thought. He's seen too much of what Umbrella does to people. It gives him nightmares, even now.

Especially now, apparently. Because that night he has one, and it's vivid, ugly, full of memories he'd pushed to the very back of his soul. Raccoon City in all it's gory glory, with people who don't know they're dead still walking the streets, bodies rotting away with every step as they search. Tireless. Hungry. Backing him into a dead end and reaching out-

He wakes up panting, and he's drenched in sweat and shaking and fucking _scared_, caught as the dreams bleed into reality and make him scramble back from shadows that birth drooling corpses with grasping hands before it all fades and his cell is empty again. He's left huddled in a corner with fists out to fight off something that's not real, jaw aching with how hard he's clenched his teeth to keep from screaming and calling something even worse to him.

His heartbeat is loud in his ears. His breath is harsh in his throat. Slowly, he claws his way back to something like calm. He hasn't had dreams like this in years, not since right after Raccoon when he'd been forced to fake normal for Sherry's sake until Child Services took her away, and then the Government took _him_.

He'd beat them- no, he'd _killed_ those dreams. But just like the horrors in Raccoon they've been pulled out of the grave by Umbrella.

He can't ignore it any longer- he's one of their pet projects, and despite Krauser playing the frontman and seducer, the truth is that Leon's still just another experiment. A rat in a cage: all too available for whatever Umbrella wants to try and it's honestly kind of surprising that it's taken this long for them to push things to this sick level.

Not that it wasn't sick before, he reminds himself. He rubs at the aching handcuff scars that band his wrists.

And the worst of it is that he's helpless. Even now, knowing that things are going to get worse, there's just nothing Leon can _do_ except climb back into bed and tell himself that it's not real. That it's just a dream, just a bad memory, and it can't touch him now.

It doesn't help. Not then, and not the next day, and not the day after. Because those times when he catches shadows lunging for him at the corner of his vision? When he watches the other prisoners shuffling past his cell and sees dead things in their place, when he looks down and sees his RPD uniform spattered with blood and bone and gore - those time _are_ real in the moment they happen. For that split second he's back _then_ and he can hear it, the low groaning of lungs trying to shape the sounds a rotten brain sends them. He can see it, hell, he can _smell_ it, puke and sour blood and acrid smoke as the city dies around him.

And the dead. Always the dead, rising up in ways that they just _should not_.

It gets him every time, a jab of pure adrenaline to his system, whiting out common sense and sending him scrambling. His fingers are scraped raw, legs bruised from diving for cover. His head aches. His mouth is dry. He's forcing down his meals through pure will, despite his suspicions about the contents because there's nothing else to eat and he does not. want. to die. in an Umbrella facility. Doesn't want to give in and let them do as they please with his body, drag him back from beyond and force him into mindless not-death.

The other prisoners think it's hilarious, of course. Because they're idiots. Because they're ignorant. They like to yell at him at odd times, make strange noises in the dark after lights out and that gets to him, too. He can't block it out. He's tried.

He's not sleeping much any more.

He wonders where Krauser is. He hasn't given up, Leon's sure of it, but he hasn't come by since the hallucinations began, and that makes Leon twitchy, too. He likes to watch Leon's defences get peeled away, so shouldn't he want to see this? But it doesn't seem like anyone's really paying attention other then the peanut gallery, not even to take notes about his deterioration unless- unless-

Cameras everywhere along the halls on the way to the showers. Leon stumbles to his cell bars and looks out and yeah, there it is. He'd missed it while trying to block out the world outside, but now that he's looking it's obvious. The familiar little black box of a camera is nestled high up on the hallway wall and pointed directly into his cell, and the sight of him makes him seethe. They're taping him. Have been since the very beginning, he'll bet his life on it, and he's pretty sure- no, he _knows_ that Krauser's got those tapes. Watches them over and over and probably jerks off to the sight of Leon trapped. To Leon being touched by Krauser. To Leon trying to ease his boredom and the fires lit under his skin, touching himself under the covers late at night and pretending he's somewhere better, with someone nicer, because there is _no way_ that camera doesn't have night vision, or infrared, or something, _anything_ to see every move Leon makes.

His fist ploughs into the wall before he even realizes how angry he really is. The pain jolts through him, and damn but he'd better not have broken his hand. Touches it gingerly with the other, and skims over the scars around his wrists and lives _that_ again. Handcuffed to the bars as rough hands dip between his legs, pain of the bootlace cockring, sting from a shiv cut on his side, and his cock is incredibly, horribly hard. Jeering voices in his ears: Pretty pig.

Gasp, and he's back in the present, hands clutching at his dick that's full and wanting all of a sudden, and isn't _that_ sick? Isn't Krauser going to laugh as he watches this later?

Krauser. Krauser's got- they taped him from day one, so Krauser's got _that_ on tape, to watch Leon be welcomed to the cell block, rewind, watch it again.

Shit. Anyone could see it. Umbrella's staff torturers playing at being scientists as they record his reactions. Guards who're bored and looking for cheap entertainment. Some random janitor stumbling onto a misplaced tape.

_Anyone_.

He barely makes it to the toilet before he's sick.

It's a long time before he can make himself move again. Flushes, rinses his mouth out at the sink. He's achingly tired, overloaded. Stumbles to the bed and falls into it fully dressed.

Sleeps, finally.

And wakes up, not to nightmares, but to safety. To deep contentment. To Krauser, smiling down at him, because it's their free day and they're in some shitty motel, and they don't need to worry about the drill sergeant or their fellow recruits and they can _sleep in_.

He smiles back. And then reality jolts though him.

Krauser's not safe. Leon's not safe. And this isn't five years ago.

He jerks, tries to sit up and can't. His arms are held spread, wrists tied to the rings at the headboard's posts with a matched pair of glittering handcuffs. At least his legs are free, but that doesn't give him much hope as Krauser looms over him, skims his hand along Leon's chest, touches the snaps of his uniform, then finally traces up the length of his right arm to touch his wrist.

"How's your hand?"

"You're drugging my food."

That gets him a twitch of Krauser's brow, Krauser's fingers on his lips. "You're still eating it, though."

"Only until I finish digging the escape tunnel with my belt buckle. What the hell _is_ it, Krauser? What- What're are you-" He shuts up to wrestle for control. Glares. "I thought you wanted a partner, not some drooling mutated genetic horror."

"Humph. Scared of that? You shouldn't be. What's in your food is harmless, Comrade. Just a little psych pill." Krauser cups Leon's face. "Don't know why you're so worried. I keep telling you I'll take good care of you, and you know I don't lie."

That arrogant son of a- "I know it, huh? Is that what you think? Lemme tell you what I know, Krauser. What I know is that you're working for the people who set in motion one of the biggest global biohazard incidents the world ever saw. What I know is that you've kidnapped me, locked me up in a cell, and have been playing psycho mindgames with me ever since. What I _know_, Krauser, is that you've totally, completely lost it and that I want out before whatever's wrong with you infects me!" He's yelling by the end of it. Thrashing and fighting the cuffs, and Krauser just sits down on the bed beside him and watches. Slaps down Leon's legs if they get too close to kneeing him in the back, but other then that just smirks and lets Leon tire himself out.

Finally, Leon calms, lets himself hang limp. Krauser's hand settles around Leon's throat which is uncomfortably close to a threat, but too gentle in its touch to be anything but a gesture of affection. "And this is why I'm drugging your food, Leon. Because you've let yourself forget all the important bits and gotten tangled in politics and morals. But this thing between us isn't about that. It's about sex and death, pain and trust."

"_I don't-_" trust you, is what Leon wants to say, but the lie clogs his throat, and he has to look away. Hates himself because it shouldn't be a lie. It _shouldn't_, not after all this time and after everything Krauser's done, but it is, or Leon wouldn't open his mouth for Krauser's knife.

"That's right. You're already remembering. That's good, Leon, real good. And the drugs will help you. They're memory enhancers; Umbrella originally developed them to fight Alzheimer's, but the effects weren't quite what they expected."

"Flashbacks. Nightmares."

"Yes. They dig up all the memories with the strongest emotional tags. It'll all come back to you, Comrade. The fear, the need." He leans in, heavy on top of Leon, and kisses him. Hard and slow. Soft wet noises. The smell of sweat and gunpowder and Krauser, something Leon'll never forget and still craves, but he breaks it off, pulls his face away.

"Dependency. Wasn't healthy. The therapist-" he swallows spit and the the taste of Krauser's mouth. "The therapist said so."

"Yeah, I know. Something about misguided emotional bonds fostered under trauma, or some shit like that. I can't believe you spent two years listening to that crap and actually paid for it."

Freeze. "You have my therapy files?" The conversations, everything he'd said. About Raccoon. About his job. About his family and _Krauser_. Everything he'd said about Krauser. "Those were supposed to be confidential!" It'd been the only way his commander had managed to drag him into the sessions: a guarantee for discretion from a professional inside the organization.

"'Course I do. Can't look after you properly if I don't know what's wrong." He pets Leon's hair, his face. "Have to admit I was kinda worried when I heard you were thrown into therapy the minute I vanished, but it seems like it wasn't anything serious. You were just lonely and lost without me to keep you on track. They indulged your moping too much. Should have just slapped you and given you a good fuck."

"Yeah, that would have really helped with the PTSD and the survivor guilt. Thanks, Krauser," Leon says, sarcastic-sweet.

"Worked back when we were partners, didn't it?"

"And left me messed up for years afterwards! At least with the therapy I'm starting to get over-"

"You're not over it at all," Krauser snaps. "You said it yourself back on that island - you're still fighting for your past, for Raccoon and Umbrella. Two years and all that money wasted, Leon, and it's not surprising because they weren't interested in helping you. If they were, they would never have let you keep this uniform." He fingers the collar and shakes his head. Snorts. "Nothing but trouble. I told you to get rid of it, but it seems you just left it in storage. Has it made things easier on you these past few days? Brought up any good memories?"

"Well, it lets me remember a time when I didn't have to look at your ugly mug, at least."

"Didn't think so," Krauser says, because he knows Leon. Because Leon didn't say no. "But I think I need to rub it in."

He fishes a bottle out of his belt pouch. Uncaps it, shakes out a single red pill. Small, round. Puts away the bottle, and waves the pill in front of Leon's face. "You gonna make this sweet and easy, or hard and fun?"

Leon eyes the pill disdainfully. "Like I'll let you put anything of Umbrella's in my mouth willingly."

Krauser chuckles. "_I'm_ Umbrella's, Leon." He leans in again, kisses Leon a second time, drawn out and lingering. "And you're always willing to let me into your mouth," he purrs. Then he slips the pill between his lips, and moves in for another kiss.

Leon fights it this time. Tries to turn his face away but Krauser's hands grip his hair, his jaw, forcing him still as their mouths are crushed together. Pressure points make his mouth open with a low groan of pain, and Krauser's tongue slips into him, pushes the pill inside and he swallows out of pure reflex, too used to doing it with Krauser's mouth on him. It goes down far too easy as they continue to kiss, Leon letting himself press back just as hard in an effort to best Krauser for dominance in this, at least, if nothing else.

They bite each other, Leon getting Krauser's blood on his tongue, worrying at the cut he's made on Krauser's lip to tear it wider, make it sting more. Krauser just chuckles, lets Leon suck at the wound and shifts to lie fully on Leon's outstretched body, nestled between Leon's spreading legs.

Jerk at the cuffs, but they still hold Leon fast. He grunts, and scrapes a booted foot along the back of Krauser's calves. Hopes it hurts.

It's Krauser who breaks the kiss this time, and he pulls back enough to kneel between Leon's legs, brace a hand by Leon's head and stare down into his eyes. "Shouldn't take long to kick in," he says. "Didn't take much in your food, so- yes. Your pupils are already starting to dilate. Feel a little woozy, Leon?"

"I- yeah . . ." Like the whole room is sliding downwards past him, the bed falling away beneath him and leaving him hanging in space. Shit. He probably shouldn't have admitted that to Krauser. Should have kept faking being fine except that he can't think of a reason why. He tells Krauser everything, doesn't he? He did. Except not recently because- because-

-because he's in his cop uniform, so obviously he hasn't met Krauser yet, right? Which means he's in-

"Raccoon City," he groans. "Shit. No. I-"

"Yes. Relive that time, Comrade."

"I'm not there, I'm not- I got out-"

"Not yet you haven't. You've just arrived."

"Late. I got there late-" And it all comes back to him in a rush. Dead girl in the road, and he gets out of his car to investigate and it's a _mess_, blood everywhere. Smell of rotten meat. Sound behind him and he looks up to see the dead come stumbling toward him.

Slow dawn of horror, of primal fear barely held in check by cop training that's too new to be sure and he fires his gun at a human for the first time. God, oh God.

He swims through those memories. Dark waters of raw emotion as he kills things that are already dead. Runs down halls and through dark rooms, flees from hell dogs missing their lower jaw and trailing intestines behind them, from a towering Frankenstein in a green trench coat who bursts through windows and concrete walls and just won't stay the fuck _down_.

He's thrashing against the cuffs, against Krauser, but he can't feel it even though the blood runs from his wrists and reopened scars. His breathing is nothing but harsh pants and slow, drawn out gasps. He surfaces, finally, breaking free of the past but Krauser's there, waiting, and dunks him back under:

"There's an old bloodstain here on your sleeve, Leon. How'd that happen?"

From the tongue. Licker. Great fleshy spear that shot out at him from the dark, grazed his arm and he's back then again and seeing it's naked brain, it's gaping mouth filled with sharpened teeth. It had once been _human_, and how is that even possible?

"And the seam? What ripped it?"

Giant spiders. Enormous spiders. As big as his car, all twitching legs and glittering eyes, and he lifts the shotgun with aching arms and aims for what he thinks counts as a face.

It goes on like that. And on and on, until the smell of death and smoke lingers and Leon cringes at every touch to his uniform, as moments of horror and sick terror are pulled out of his past and replayed for him. He's mauled by walking plants again, sees Ada die in repeat. Faces down the melted flesh creature that William Birkin's become in endless horrific loops.

He's drenched in sweat as the memories start to wane. Shivering. Sobs when Krauser's finger traces the letters stencilled on the uniform's front. R. P. D, and Leon's walking into the charnel house that Raccoon's police station has become.

"Stop," he moans. "Krauser- Krauser, don't- not any more-"

"It's not me, Leon. It's the uniform. All those bad memories tied up in it. It's a trigger, a link to the past, and as long as you wear it you'll be trapped in this endless cycle."

No. No, not that. He can't stand that. Please. Get it- "off," he mumbles. "Get it _off_."

"You've got nothing else to wear."

Breathy little laugh, and he says ". . . at this point, I really don't give a damn."

"That's what I like to hear."

And the knife comes out. Shining silver fang in Krauser's hand, and it brings with it its own slew of memories, but these one are sweet, sweet and hot and wrong.

It is achingly sharp. Cool to Leon's burning skin as its back slides against his neck, and he's remembering the first time he and Krauser played their game, pressed knives to each others faces in the dark to see who'd flinch first. His cock twitches as the blade slides under the collar of his blue uniform top, grows hard as the cloth is torn open. Never mind the snaps, Krauser cuts away the fabric along the side seam beside the reinforced plates on both sides, the sleeves, and pulls the ruined cloth from Leon's body.

First layer gone, and with it goes the pain from the memories etched into it. Leon feels that much lighter. That much cleaner.

"A government shrink just wants to get you back up and playing soldier," Krauser tells him conversationally. "They're stringing you along with that psycho mumbo-jumbo to keep you loyal, let you keep all this fucked up emotional baggage despite saying they're helping. They've trapped you in that memory, Comrade. They're just exploiting the weakness Raccoon's left you with."

The white undershirt goes next, this time a clean slit up the middle before the sleeves are wrecked, the whole thing pulled away. Leon's bare chested, and he slips in time and wonders where his dogtags have gone. The drill sergeant'll kill him once he finds out, and more pressingly, Leon misses the way Krauser likes to tease the chain with the tip of his knife, make the tags clink softly. Good memories.

Good memories with Krauser, but Leon's conscience surfaces, nags at him, and for a moment he's on the island and Krauser's kidnapped Ashley. There's more to Krauser then their sweet past as partners.

"Like you're any better," Leon manages, struggling to stay in the present. "Isn't that what you're trying to do right now, Krauser? Trap me in a memory? You're even drugging me to do it."

Krauser shifts between Leon's legs, plays with Leon's belt buckle. "This is just to help you see the truth, Leon. To help you shed the bonds you've wrapped yourself in. I'm trying to get you to remember how it was so you can move on to something better. When we were partners I kept you safe, I kept you _happy_. I got you off." His hand, big and hot, presses against Leon's crotch. His knife traces a chill line down Leon's belly, the dip of his navel. "Are you happy with those government clowns, Leon? When was the last time you had sex? I know you're still chasing after women you know you'll never have. You still have that ED problem?"

Leon's ears burn. His cheeks, too, with harsh blush because yes, he still has 'that ED problem'. The therapist said it happened with PTSD cases, that it was normal. All Leon knows that he gets interested just fine, and fantasies and dreams are no issue either, but once he's in bed with a real woman everything falls apart as he can't help but _remember_, a dark string of pain he spirals down and it happens now, the drugs pulling up those stories to make him live it all again. Annette shooting him. Claire walking away. Ada collapsing in his arms, dead, _dead_ because he failed and even now that he knows she's alive it doesn't help at all because it just makes some primal part of him believe she's become like those _things_.

Too much, it's too much to have it parade before him like this. He fights the memories the only way he can, clinging to the one thing that doesn't have that kind of pain: Krauser, Krauser's touch, Krauser's heat pressed to Leon.

All the strongest memories built around Krauser are good ones because it's just as he's said: with Krauser, Leon'd felt safe. With Krauser, Leon'd been happy. Had managed to find some kind of balance with the fucked up sex games they'd played and gotten to a place where he could enjoy himself, and never mind that it took knives and blood and someone pressing him into the ground and fucking his ass. Krauser never made him feel ashamed.

It a lot of ways, you could argue it had been one of the best times of Leon's life, and he'd never have had it end except-

"Oh. God." Leon gasps, and fights _that_ memory. Krauser's not dead. He's not dead in a helicopter, burning. He's here, he's alive, he _came back_.

It's not working. The cuffs on his wrist, Krauser's weight pressing him down: it's too much like it was then, and Leon's back in that transport helicopter as it flies off and he's looking out the window and seeing the missile, Krauser's 'chopper being hit and going down and Leon is up, out of his seat. Scrambling for the door and struggling with the safeties.

Lieutenant Francis is there beside him then, grabs him and tries to pull him away. He struggles, fights him off with desperate strength but more pile onto him. Cauldweld and Jacobs and Hearst. He's pinned to the ground under their weight, wrists locked in their grip and he's howling, screaming-

"Krauser! Krauser- Jack! _JACK!_"

-because the foundation for his new life after Raccoon is going up in smoke and he has to go save him-

Kiss.

Jack is kissing him. Has to be- Leon would know that taste, that technique, anywhere, and he melts right into it. Never mind his wrists are still trapped, that he's still pinned down. That's okay, because Jack Krauser's alive, and Leon's not watching his world tilt all over again.

Almost-sex as their lips part, tongues sliding against one another, Krauser pretend-fucking his mouth for long moments. When he pulls back a thin thread of spit hangs between them. Snaps.

"Ugh," Leon grunts. Wrinkles his nose. Licks his lips and looks up at Krauser through his lashes. "Jack?"

"That's right. See how easy it is?"

Easy? Leon frowns. What's he talking about?

"Now lets get the rest of this crap off you, Comrade," Jack says, deep voice rumbling right through Leon to snuggle into his bones, and Leon's nodding agreement before the words die.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay. Wait." Rising panic as recognition hits. "This is my RPD uniform. Why am I-"

"Don't think about it," Jack interrupts. Sets his knife under the waist of Leon's pants and rips upwards, slicing through cloth and belt and Leon's not wearing anything underneath because- because he'd ripped his boxers in half when Krauser'd called him a woman. His kept woman.

"_Bastard_," Leon gasps, but the reason for it slides out of his mind as Krauser bends and nuzzles into the rip to lick a stripe along the length of Leon's bared cock and, okay, yeah. Not thinking about it. Not thinking about anything now except his dick and Jack's mouth, the soft suckling at the base of his dick right down near his balls.

The knife makes another pass and slices though the straps holding the empty gun holster to his thigh. His gun. Krauser took his gun, didn't he? So no point in wearing the empty holster except as a 'just in case', but that's not important anymore. What's important is that the holster is tossed aside, and Krauser's pulling back so he can cut down the length of Leon's pant legs, first the right side, then the left, and the whole mess is pulled away and Leon's in nothing but handcuffs, socks, and his battered black combat boots. Spread out naked on the bed for Krauser, his legs bent to either side of the bigger man. And all he can think about is sex. All he can remember is sex. Sex with Jack Krauser, and how good it is.

His body remembers, too. Is more then ready, cock filled and proudly jutting up to be touched and tasted again, hips tilted to present his ass for filling and taking. Jack smiles at Leon and runs an appreciative hand along Leon's bent legs. Slips under to cup Leon's butt. Squeezes.

"What, you waiting for an engraved invitation?" Leon pants.

"I was actually thinking of making my own," says Krauser. Traces his initials on the inner flesh of Leon's left thigh with the tip of his knife and leaves the faintest of pink scratches.

"That's government property you're defacing, you know."

"No. Not anymore." A sudden lunge and another deep, wet kiss. The knife is buried hilt-deep into the pillow beside Leon's head. "It's _my_ property now, Leon."

Leon can't even protest. He's too busy kissing Krauser, sucking on his tongue. Too busy rolling his hips to thrust up against Krauser's, his bare cock rubbing along Krauser's clothed one. Not for long, though, because Krauser's hand fumbles down between them to unbuckle his belt, yank at it, at his camo pants, shoving the whole mess down just enough so that his dick is free.

They rut, Leon trapped beneath and Krauser pressing down from above. Krauser's fingers close around both their dicks and press them together, glorious slick heat they thrust into mindlessly. Their sweat and precome mingle in his grip. Leon wraps his fingers around the chains to his cuffs to spare his wrists, plants his booted feet on the bed for better leverage and shoves up against Krauser, lifts them both off the mattress with his thrusts.

It's like he's on fire, passion eating at him in a bright frenzy, and the world burns away along with Leon. Everything vanishes. He pants, gasps. Grits his teeth and reaches just that much further and _comes_.

He falls back to the bed, blank eyed and empty. Ashes. Krauser grunts, rises himself up above him on all fours and keeps pumping his dick, fingers slick with Leon's release. It makes Leon's own cock twitch with interest despite his fatigue, an ember of lust, and by the time Krauser comes in hot, hot spurts of milky come all over Leon's dick and belly, Leon's half hard again.

Krauser settles back down between Leon's legs and toys with Leon's balls, rubs their mingled come into the skin. "Good to know you missed me so much, Comrade. Had no idea you got that upset over the crash, though. They didn't go into details in the reports I managed to get hold of. You pull a Raccoon on it? Repressed the whole thing and laughed it off the next day?"

"I-" Memory is still too sharp inside him, and he shies away from it even as it cuts him again, wilts his budding erection. "I don't- They kept telling me you'd been killed in the crash. And everyone dies, right? Even you. Even-"

Low, rich laughter from Krauser. "Thought so. Guess that explains why you took seeing me alive so well when we were back on the island. You did the same thing with that bitch when we were first paired up. All torn up about her dying on you, but kept it locked under the surface until you believed your own bullshit, and now you can look her in the face without batting an eye. Built yourself a nice thick mental block. Did the shrink help you with that? Tell you to keep pushing forward and forget?" His pale gaze is sly as it spears Leon sidelong. "Did they give you drugs to help it along?"

Yes. But so what? "You're doing the same thing. At least they've got licences to dose me with crazy pills!"

"I've told you before: it's only to undo the mess they've made of you. Don't you feel better already, Leon?"

Leon says nothing to that. Doesn't think there's any kind of safe answer, so he just glares at Krauser and flexes his hands in the cuffs.

His non-answer is obviously enough, though, because Krauser smiles, a smug curl of the lips. "Thought so. And good luck trying to block it off this time, Comrade. Especially with the choice you're about to make."

". . . what do you mean?"

"I'll be taking that mess with me," Krauser says, nodding at the pile of ripped cloth on the floor. "And the meds in your system will keep all those memories raw and fresh in your brain. Drugged up and naked in a jail, I wonder what you'll see in those flashbacks? Especially with your fine, upstanding neighbours for company. Think they're clever enough to trick you back over to the bars for another go while you're hallucinating, Leon? They get to walk by each time they go to and from meals; lots of opportunity there. Unless-"

Fear, potent and chill in Leon's guts. "Krauser-"

"-_Unless_," Krauser repeats, "you ask me for something to wear."

There are traps strung all over that offer, so many that Leon can't see them all, just _sense_ them, in the words, in the tone, in the appreciative leer on Krauser's face.

"I've been good to you, Leon. Taken care of you just like I said I would: kept you fed and housed and clean. You like the soap and shampoo I had them bring you? The razor and shaving creme?"

". . . they're my favourite brands. I hope the neighbours didn't see you going through my trash for that info."

"Didn't have to. I was in your apartment."

Memory in a sudden burst, of a hit from behind as Leon guts the fifth assailant crowding his bedroom. He goes down, sight fogging out before he sees his attacker but now that he's told, yes, of course it was Krauser who helped kidnap him.

"But now I want a little something from you. Nothing much," Krauser continues, "Just for you to admit that you need me to provide for you."

Leon's breath goes out of him in a low, drawn out hiss from between his clenched teeth, his face burns with the flush of rage. He hates this. Loathes it. Dependence forced by captivity, and Krauser backs him into corners all too easily because of it. Leon can no more get out of this then the business with the shower. " . . . _fine_. I-"

"Look me in the face when you say it, Leon."

And that's harder. Worse. It takes effort to make his eyes meet Krauser's, and he finds himself unable to speak at first. Ridiculous since he's got no problem saying it while he's naked and handcuffed to the bed, smeared with both their semen. But somehow looking Krauser in the face means he has to swallow back tightness in his throat, and force the words out like they're made of glass. "I- I need you to-" He shifts, uneasy. Legs twitching to either side of Krauser. Fingers tracing the chains of the cuffs. "- to provide. For me."

"Again. In one go."

Grits his teeth, then: "I need you to provide for me."

"Again!"

"_I need you to provide for me!_" he snaps. "Okay? That satisfy you, Krauser? I'm helpless and useless here, and I need you to give me some goddamn clothes!"

"You need me to give you _everything_, Leon," Krauser corrects him. "Food, water, clothing. Safety. Dignity. Don't forget what you are."

The words from before scroll back through Leon's brain. "I. Am not. Your kept. Woman," he bites out.

Krauser just raises a brow. "Aren't you, Comrade?"

The reality of Leon's situation weighs on him, and he has to look away. Dependency. Krauser giving him everything he needs. And the risk that pushing this too far will fuck him over in all kinds of horrific ways, both literal and figurative. " . . . I'm not a woman," he says at last. Giving ground, but as little as possible.

His hair is stroked, gentle. "We'll get to that."

He closes his eyes, resigned.

"For now, though, it's good enough." Krauser tucks his dick back into his pants and belts up at last. Sheathes his knife. Crawls off the bed and reaches under it. Pulls out a duffel bag, and from that he pulls a set of his own combat fatigues - a huge black T-shirt, loose drawstring camo pants. He tosses them onto Leon, and they smell of sweat, of gunpowder, of Krauser. "You'll wear those from now on. Let me know if they get too worn, and I'll give you a new set."

Leon sneers. "What, I don't get a pair of your Y-fronts to complete the ensemble?"

Krauser just smirks and grabs Leon's dick. Squeezes, the edge of painful. "I like easy access to my woman."

Fucker.

"Now then. Time for you to go back to sleep so I can uncuff you, Comrade. No drugs, though. We don't want any unfortunate overdose accidents with you already doped up." He's smiling, wide and too eager as he reaches for Leon. Wraps his hand back around Leon's throat. "So it'll have to be the hands-on approach."

Leon's got a split second of blank horror before Krauser's fingers tighten, and then he's being choked. He gasps for air, struggles. His legs kick violently, his arms strain against the cuffs, but Krauser shushes him with odd gentleness.

"Don't fight it, Comrade. I know what I'm doing. Trust me."

And the worst thing is that he's back in the past when it happens, and Jack's his friend, and Leon believes him.

He blacks out.


	5. Carrot and Stick

Back when Leon had first been recruited by the government, before even meeting Krauser, they'd put him through survival training in case he'd ever been captured. Those classes are vivid in his mind these days, mostly because he's pretty sure that he's fucked up every single point.

This _thing_ growing between him and Krauser being the main issue. He knows it's toxic - every favour is paid for in dignity, in dependence. But there just aren't any other options. And as much as he knows he should resist, sometimes it just seems pointless. Why fight so hard against having to ask for second pair of pants? Why let his hair grow wild when Krauser's more then willing to bring in a company barber to give Leon a quick trim? The only alternative is to the humiliation of wallowing in his own filth.

It's all carrot and stick. Leon knows it but he still he takes the bait, over, and over, and over. Because he's been in this cell for over four months now, and he's still having those damn dreams.

When you wake in blind panic every other night, soaked with sweat and shaking, when the oddest things throw you back to a time filled with blood and ashes and primal, soul-rending fear, when you're ready to puke from the adrenaline roller coaster of jumping at shadows you _know_ aren't real . . . something as basic as orange juice with your breakfast can make all the difference. Leon's reduced to clinging to the simple stuff, the small joys of life, to get him through each day. And it's Krauser who provides them. Not for free, but for little things: A please. A thank you. An admission of dependence.

The words come easier to Leon now, and he doesn't know how he feels about it. Sick, mostly. Ashamed. He can look Krauser in the face and say 'I need you' like he means it because he _does_. For the better food, for the nail trimmers. For the clothing he wears and the gun magazines. But more then that: for good conversation. For thoughts that aren't his own, for card games, for _sex_. Krauser's become Leon's only source of decent human contact at this point. The guards who bring him food will linger, but only to stare with eerie focus. The other prisoners are still being assholes, mocking him, trying their best to trigger a flashback. Even his memories are ugly things.

Unless they're about Krauser.

A lot of them are about Krauser. Too many, maybe, but they're better then the other ones, right? And it's so easy to fall back into that time and place while the drugs are running through his blood and he's wearing Krauser's clothing, sleeping in the bed where Krauser fucks him. Krauser's smell is on everything, even soaking into Leon's skin and hair, and Leon can't help but welcome it because it keeps him in the good times. Keeps the nightmares at bay.

It makes him feel _safe_, and isn't _that_ just great? He does his best to ignore it, but the truth still surfaces in his brain late at night. He trusts Krauser. He depends on Krauser. He feels safe surrounded by Krauser's smell, wearing Krauser's clothes. He's- he's becoming Krauser's kept toy, and the obedience, the _submission_ that's being coaxed from him in slow stages both pisses him off and scares the shit out of him. So far all he's been asked to give are words, but how long until Krauser pushes for more? How long until Leon's willing to go that far?

Is he willing to go that far now?

He doesn't know, and that scares him most of all. There are a hell of a lot of nasty possibilities for Leon in this place, most of which Leon has seen first hand, and read reports of others. Umbrella scientists like to cut people's heads open, put out their eyes, let them wander lost in their compounds _just for laughs_. Take bets on how long it'll take before the poor sap dies, and write up mock research papers on it. They're sick, dangerous, and horrifically creative, and Leon knows that he'll sink to all kinds of lows to keep out of their hands. Suicide would be an incredibly attractive option if he wasn't convinced they'd bring him right back to life.

So all that's left to him is escape. And in the meantime, Krauser. Krauser's protection.

Thing is, years ago Krauser protected Leon - it's actually how they met, Krauser the spotter to Leon's sniper during one of the government training programs. And Leon still remembers the ease he'd had in trusting Krauser to watch his back. That memory lingers at the edge of Leon's mind, and it's a dark temptation to give in to it's resurrection in this hellpit, achingly so. He'd probably already have given in if it wasn't for the title Krauser wants to hang around Leon's neck.

Krauser's kept woman. His _kept woman_, and that brings with it all kinds of sick images. Nothing like Ada, or even nurturing Claire - it's for women of another class entirely. Pearl necklaces and barefoot in the kitchen. Keep your mouth shut and do as your man says, and Leon's teeth grind just thinking about it. He's not that creature. He's not property, he's not some domesticated, broken _wife_, and though he's pretty sure Krauser doesn't want him in frilly aprons and summer dresses he _knows_ that Jack wants him in that second-tier place. Something to be fucked at will and shown off to others, pet and pampered and caged. Obedient and hemmed in. Off limits to anyone else.

Utterly dependent.

He's already more then halfway there, asking Jack for anything he needs or wants, needing Jack to keep him in the present, or at least the better memories. Trapped in this cage, and embarrassingly willing each time Jack puts his hands on Leon's dick. All he's got left at this point is his pride, his identity. Leon still belongs to Leon, is still the Leon he's made of himself.

But as the days drift past that truth fades by degrees. Leon is wearing down. Getting desperate. So much so that when Krauser tells him he'll be away for a few weeks on assignment, Leon is grateful despite the looming prospect of delirium. He might go out of his mind, but at least he'll be _himself_, and safe from kneeling to Krauser's demands.

So for the first time in days he doesn't see Krauser. Just the other inmates and the guards who bring him his food and the inescapable ghosts of his past. The next day is like that, too, and the day after, and Leon's too busy adjusting to the change to really notice anything outside his drug-fogged brain. But on the fourth day, something shifts, and Leon notices just how long the guards are lingering outside his cell.

He frowns at them. They come in pairs, usually, but today there are twice that number. Big men. Not as big as Krauser, but they have the bulky physique of weightlifters and fighters, easily filling their Umbrella uniforms. Except for their colouring - two brunets, but one dark and the other pale, a blond, and the last a redhead with more freckles then clear skin - they could be clones of one another, with the same crew cuts and square-jawed faces.

They haven't seen combat - Leon can tell with a glance. They move all wrong for it, too much spit and polish and attitude. Probably spend all their time holding up walls and safeguarding doors, watching people stuck in cages and going nowhere.

Like they're watching him now.

They make his skin prickle. Something not right in the way they stand, the way they finger the bars and drag their gazes over him. He glares at them, refuses to be intimidated and stubbornly sets to eating his tainted food. It may be drugged, but it's good quality stuff now - salad and two kinds of sandwich, a pear. They leave, but they're back with his supper and they watch him again, and that night his dreams are filled with memories of dark rooms and ambushes. Glittering eyes in the dark.

He's a wreck the next day, pressing himself against the wall to try to keep touch with what's real. No use, though, because when those same four guards linger after giving him his breakfast and he finally puts his finger on what's bothering him the flashback hits him like an eighteen wheeler going over a snake, just mows him flat with visions of dead people pawing at windows, trying to break through.

He comes back to reality with a gasp, finds himself plastered to the back wall of his cell and digging his fingers so hard into the concrete his nails have cracked, are bleeding. He swallows, hard, blinks to clear his eyes and the guards are _still_ standing there, but now they've pressed themselves right up against the bars, arms reaching through, and Leon looks away before he sees something else.

Like the zombies of Raccoon, they're hungry. For his flesh, for his screams. That's what's got Leon on edge, though they want something a bit different then simply to eat him.

He dares another look at them. Flash of recognition, and the darker of the two brunets is suddenly smiling because he's realized that Leon _knows_. What they want, and how little he can do about it.

"You scared, Kennedy? You should be. Big man Krauser's gone away for a whole two weeks," the guard croons at him. "Don't think he'll care much if we play with his current toy since he left you behind. You're _so_ pretty, Kennedy, and I've seen the tapes. Krauser's got you trained up all nice, don't he? We'd sure like to find out how well trained you really are."

Low laughter greets his announcement, and not just from the other guards.

"Hey, hey! If the big man's gone, why not let him out to play with us, huh? Give him some exercise," calls one of the other prisoners.

"He's always locked up," agrees another. "He aughta have the chance to be more social."

The paler of the brunet guards snorts. "Like you animals would know what to do with such a choice cut of meat. Tear him to pieces - you'd ruin him."

"Might be nice to watch, though, once we're done," muses red-head.

Hoots and hollers of approval to that, banging on the cell bars and catcalls, and Leon's teeth grind with rage. Assholes. Bastards. Psychopathic fuckers. His hands ache for a gun, for a _knife_, to see them all with slit throats and gutted bellies, blood pooling at his feet, but he's unarmed and his head swims. Too much of this and he'll forget himself. Can already feel the adrenaline lacing his blood and the memories tugging at his brain.

Dark-brunet presses his thumb to the lock, and it opens. The door to Leon's cell swings wide. He steps inside, saying, "C'mon. Let's help Kennedy loosen up a bit."

"Hey, no! We can't see fuck all if you do it in there!"

The guards trade looks, half-smiles and easy shrugs. Sure, why not, they're thinking. Let's drag him out to put on a show. Like it's a game. Like it'll be easy.

Like Leon isn't a trained killer who even Krauser makes sure to keep handcuffed at all times. These guys are idiots.

Which is why they don't know what's hit them when Leon breaks from the wall and rushes them. Head on as if to tackle, only to spin into a roundhouse kick at the last minute. His foot connects, a solid hit to the jaw that sends the leader flying back into the rest. Three of them go down in a tangle, and Leon dives over them and out of his cell.

Blondie starts swearing, and lunges. It's the last mistake he ever makes. Leon ducks and grabs and then moves with the man's momentum, arching backwards in a graceful suplex. Wet _crunch_. The guard's neck is broken, and Leon's on his knees beside him and scrambling at the man's belt to take his weapon.

Yelling, cussing. The other prisoners are in shock. The guards are pissed off, enraged. None of them can believe what Leon's just done, and Leon himself is slipping again. Too much noise and the smell of blood. As his fingers close around the baton on the guard's hip and pull it from it's holster he finally loses it.

He's not in the now anymore. He's back in Raccoon, and somehow he's lost his gun, his knife. He just got a standard-issue police baton he's salvaged from the precinct and the dead have him trapped.

His brain pastes the death-masks of zombies over the guards' faces as the haul themselves to their feet. His body falls into combat stance but it feels strange because his memory tells him he hasn't learned it yet. Body and mind clashing, and it's enough of a distraction to let the trio come at him. Their own batons are out, and _theirs_ spit lightening.

It's not enough, though, to take him down. He dances back and they get tangled up in avoiding each other. Dodges in at the one in the lead and blocks its blow with his own stick, other hand swinging a brutal uppercut into the creature's jaw. It staggers back, trips over the feet of the one behind it, and goes back down.

The third is more canny, and it ducks and weaves, lunges for him, forcing his retreat to avoid the crackling electricity of its shock-rod. He lets it drive him back and back, all the way to the end of the cell block, then ducks under its next wild swing, is behind it and kicks it in the ass to send it flying headfirst at the wall. It hits and lies still. Doesn't even moan as Leon dashes to its side and crunches his boot heel down on its neck, breaking it.

Just the two brunets left. They sway, side by side in the hall, the one with its face mashed in from Leon's uppercut, the other blank-eyed and gape-mouthed. It keeps trying to say something, but all Leon can hear is a shapeless wail, barely heard past the groans of the things locked in the cells around them. He shifts his grip on the baton, and readies himself.

This time, they come at him together.

He kicks out, heavy combat boot smashing the knee of one of them and it goes down, but he has to make a frantic lunge to the side to dodge its shock-rod, and that's his undoing. Because he crashes into the bars of one of the jail cells, and in the moment he stands there stunned, the second creature takes a wild swing. Barely misses him. Doesn't miss the bars.

_Pain_. Blue-white-hot along his nerves as electricity crackles through the bars and arcs into his body. He can't scream, can't even breathe, just hang blind in that moment until the current dies and he collapses to the floor, suck in great gasping breaths, eyes streaming tears.

Something connects with his ribs, smashing into them. Cracking them, probably, and he struggles to get back to his feet but the shock-rod comes down again, this time full across his back and that's it, he's gone. Flat on the floor and gasping. All he can do is try to breathe.

A hand grabs him by the back of his oversized t-shirt, hauls him up. Someone's yelling in his face but he can't understand them. Can't even see straight. He's tossed to the ground again, and this time there's two of them, one holding him down, the other yanking at his clothing.

It's all too big for him. Hand-me-downs. So it comes off easy, and he's naked on the floor beside a dead man. God, no. Can't stay there. Too easy to get bitten when it comes back to life, but he's pinned and weak. He can't even begin to understand what's happening before fingers are thrust into his mouth. He bites on reflex, hard. The rod comes back. He's limp afterwards, limp and too stunned to do anything as he's used, hauled around so his mouth can be opened and a cock thrust into it. He gags and chokes as it's roughly fucked, the taste awful and strange, his head held in place by the hair.

This- this isn't Jack. He's sucked Jack's cock before but it's nothing like this and his body rebels, retches and cramps up and tries to vomit out the invader. Tongue pushing frantically against it but that only seems to make it worse. And finally he has to swallow because semen gushes into his throat and it's that or choke and die.

The cock is pulled from his mouth, limp. He gasps for breath in the pause. Feels the drool and the come dripping from his lips. Tries to clear his head but he _hurts_. And where the fuck is Krauser? Isn't he supposed to watch Leon's back? He keeps talking about it, keeps saying how they should. He's made promises to Leon.

Promises, promises. 'I'll take good care of you,' and he certainly took better care of Leon then _this_. The concrete is cold under Leon's bare skin as he's dropped to the ground again, and this time his legs are kicked open. Fingers are thrust into his ass. He gasps, eyes flying wide and his fingers claw at the ground. And when the cock goes into his body this time his mouth is free so he screams. Howls. Swears and sobs as he's thrust into, a burning pain as muscles are forced wider against his will. Moans as they pull on his dick, a dead thing in their hands. But despite the pain he's too weak to do anything more then wriggle in the grip of his captors. Bigger and stronger and pining him down. Leon can't get away from them.

He can't get away. No matter what he does or how hard he fights.

He's trapped.

He- he needs help. More then any other time before. Even in Raccoon he'd been able to run and kill, but he's past that point now, isn't he? Because he's helpless, and without that edge of self-agency everything else just falls away. For the first time in his life he can't fight back in any way, and because of that he feels his control slip, crack - and finally, feels it shatter along with some indefinable part of himself as he gives in and gives up and calls out for somebody, anybody. Needs someone to save him and is desperate for that help. Reaching out, and in the fog of pain all he's got left is that one anchor, that one chance at safety:

_"Krauser!_ Krauser, you bastard! You promised- _Jack, you promised to take care of me!_"

And he breaks. Crying and snarling, nothing but a mindless animal as his ass is used first by one, then the other, as they beat him and fuck him again and again there beside the body of their fellow guard. He drifts in and out of it, and the drugs muddy his mind until it's zombies that are raping him, biting him and bloodying his thighs, and as they thrust their rotten dicks into him he shuts down completely, and blacks out.

He stays unconscious for a long time. There are no dreams in that blackness, and his battered soul wallows in the respite. But in time he's pulled from that tar pit, forced back into consciousness by simple thirst, and when he wakes he feels damaged, _raw_, in so very many ways.

He stirs, and the first thing he notices is the handcuffs binding his wrists in front. Not entirely unexpected, but the wash of relief, of actual _joy_ at their cold clasp is. Because handcuffs mean-

-his eyes crack open to slits, and yes, there's Jack, sitting on the bed beside Leon, face thunderous and body tense. His knife is in his hand, twirling slowly between his fingers. He's watching Leon. He knows Leon's awake.

"Hey. Welcome back."

And Leon feels a swell of rage and pain and humiliation at those casual words, an elemental storm of emotion that roars through his body and mind. Hatred is sharp on his tongue because Krauser put him in this damn cage in the first place, because despite all his promises the- the _rape_ still happened, because as far as Leon knows Krauser could have set this up deliberately to break him, because even knowing all of this Leon is _still_ so achingly happy to see him, so glad to hear his voice and feel his heat beside him. Hate, _hate_ for that warping of Leon's thoughts and heart, and most of all, hate because-

"You're late," Leon snarls. His voice is harsh and broken from all the screaming. "Real great job watching my back, Krauser. Good thing they just wanted to fuck my ass and not kill me, 'cause otherwise you'd have come home to a hell of a mess."

The scowl on Krauser's face deepens, his brows twitch, his shoulders tense - it's the closest he ever comes to a flinch. "I know," is all he says, but the knife stops twirling. Drops into his palm hilt first, and his knuckles go white as his fingers clench tight, tight around the grip, a mirror to the brutal clench of his jaw. He's more then angry, he's _seething_, a boiling kind of rage that lurks just under the surface looking for any excuse to lash out, and something in Leon eases at the sight of it.

Krauser's a sadistic, brutal bastard, and hovers dangerously close to being a mad dog on occasions. But for all of that he's surprisingly honest. And Leon knows him well. This- this is the real thing. Jack is angry about what happened. About being late to the rescue, and about the damage done to Leon. If this was a setup, it wasn't one of Jack's.

The realization helps ease some of Leon's rage. He huffs a sigh looks away. "How bad was it?"

"Bad enough. No scaring though. Those fuckers would still be alive and screaming if they'd left any permanent damage."

"Still be alive, huh?" Leon mutters. "So they're dead?" Can't help the twist of bitter hope.

Krauser lifts a brow nods toward the front corner of the room, by the bars. Leon lifts himself up on the bed, low hiss as the stiff muscles of his back work and- and there are heads piled there. Four of them, neatly severed and stacked in a little pyramid. Leon recognizes the faces turned toward him.

And the sight of it is- Leon's isn't sure, but it brings an ugly, satisfied smile to his face to see them there. He falls back on the bed, eyes closed, and laughs soundlessly because this is perfect, right? This is just as it should be. "You killed them for me," he says. "This a love token, Jack, or is it just your way of apologizing? Either way it's a hell of an upgrade on the box of chocolates routine."

"Heh. I considered bringing you back a souvenir, but some cheap wooden giraffe just didn't seem like your style. And then I had to rush back before I got the chance to browse . . . " Jack's voice trails off into grim silence.

Leon looks at him sharply. That's right, Krauser was supposed to be away for two weeks. There's no way it's been that long, so- so Jack came back early for Leon? Because of what happened? "How'd you know to come back, anyway?" he asks.

Krauser jabs a thumb in the direction of the bars. "Your camera's hooked up to my personal feed. I can access it pretty much anywhere. Check past recordings, too. Soon as I saw what happened I hopped a flight back, but even Umbrella can't get me here from West Africa faster then eleven hours."

Another thing Leon isn't sure how to take. Being watched makes him sick. Being watched over by Jack, though? That's become something different, he realizes.

Uneasy, he turns the thought over and over in his mind and plays with the cuffs. Snuggles down further into bed. He's dressed, he finally notices, in an oversized white tanktop and sweatpants. Wonders if it was Jack who did that, too. Jack looking after him while he was out. Jack flying back early. Jack killing those bastards, the best apology he can make. He's even decapitated them, stacked the skulls up neatly and that's an unexpectedly pleasing touch - it soothes the paranoia Leon's got left over from Raccoon, since there's no way for a body to rise again without its head.

Like roses with the thorns peeled off. Jack knows him just that well, and really _does_ take good care of him.

The thought makes something twist inside him, and he squeezes his eyes shut against the ache in his chest. He knows where this is going. Hates himself for it, but can't stop it. The knife games, the memories, the rape. The rough care that's just the right shade of fucked up. It's all taken its toll, pushed Leon closer and closer to the edge, and he's so tired of teetering there.

"Leon . . ."

"Get the fuck out of my cell, Jack," he says. Because just having Krauser there makes him hate himself for his weakness. Because he wants time to alone before he makes that leap.

Krauser says nothing for a long moment, and Leon can feel the weight of his gaze. Refuses to look at him. "Fine. Come over to the bars and I'll uncuff you for the night."

The words are out before Leon can stop them. "I'll keep them for now, thanks."

As a security blanket, if he's honest. A reminder of Jack's presence, of Jack's touch. And beyond that, as a vote of confidence - despite the rape Jack still respects Leon enough to keep him bound even now.

God, he's so fucked up for needing it. For liking it.

And apparently he's given away too much because Krauser grabs him by the shoulder and forces him onto his back. Grips Leon's chin, and Leon's eyes open, stare into Krauser's.

Jack says nothing. Just searches Leon's face for a long moment, then kisses him. It's brief and hard and edged with pain, and then he stands and strides out of the cell, letting the door clang shut behind him and leaving Leon alone for the night.

Alone, but for the heads piled in the corner and his thoughts.

Jack still respects him. Jack still wants him. Jack's killed for him.

And studying those severed heads Leon can't help think that if he'd been Jack's woman -if everyone had known he was the special property of a murderous psychotic bastard, instead of just another disposable Umbrella project that Jack favoured- those fuckers wouldn't have dared touch him in the first place.


	6. Survival

There's a specific kind of rush that you get when you point a gun at someone and fear blossoms across their face. A heady feeling that bubbles up because you're better, because you're stronger, and best of all because the other person _knows_ it. Leon's shot enough people, been shot _at_ enough times, to be intimately familiar with both ends of the equation. So he knows that rush, and knows it's at least half-lie: there's no way of knowing if that fear is there because of you, or just because of the gun.

Secondhand power. It's a distinction not many people make, but Leon's smart enough to realize how important it really is, and so he recognizes it the morning after his rape and Jack's visit, when the other prisoners walk by for breakfast and turn their faces from his cage. When they say nothing to him for once, and even hug the opposite wall to stay clear.

Are they afraid of Leon, who broke out of his cell and killed two of the guards? Or are they scared of Krauser, who came back and finished off the other two, did God-knows-what to them before slicing their heads off to stack in Leon's cell? It's a bit of a toss up, but at this point Leon's betting on the latter, and that- that's something to consider.

Leon's got a choice to make.

Rape changes a lot of things. For the first time in his life Leon can understand the attraction mob bosses hold to some women. Never mind personality or looks - when it's open season on your ass and you know, you _know_ you can't protect yourself, you start looking for something or someone who _can_. And if the power you get is second hand, so what? It's _there_, and that's enough because people won't touch you, people won't hurt you. And you can hurt them.

Jack would kill again for Leon. Leon knows it, the same way he knows his own face. Not for free, but if Leon asked, if Leon _needed_ . . .

Yeah, Krauser's just like a gun. Or maybe it'd be more accurate to say like a knife, like _Leon's_ knife, glittering and dangerous and double edged. Feels just right in Leon's hands, and Leon's not sure if he means the knife or Krauser with that thought. Broods over it as he toys with the cuffs, laying in bed.

He should get up. His own breakfast is waiting for him, the tray of food left by a single terrified guard. Has been sitting there for probably over an hour now. But getting up and eating means that Leon's day will have officially begun. And he's not ready for that yet. Not yet, because when it does start, he'll have to make that choice. And he's pretty sure he knows what he'll decide. Survivor to the core, he'll pick the option that'll keep him safe if only for a little while longer.

He doesn't want to. Never mind that it would only be until he'd escape, just the thought of going down that road makes him shake and grit his teeth, scared and ill and aching. He'd like to say it's because he doesn't know what he'll become but the truth is he knows only too well: a willing killer on a gilt leash. Krauser's kept woman.

Which has somehow become something Leon _wants_, on some level. To be a kept woman. An old fashioned role from another time, when women were pampered and looked after and marked all over as someone else's territory. Someone bigger and stronger and a hell of a lot meaner. Someone who'd make all the decisions and keep all the nightmares at bay, and after everything that's happened that's a hell of an attractive thought. Especially since there's nothing in Leon's future but more of the same. Stuck here in this cell to drown in his nightmare memories until some scientist needs just one labrat more, until new guards are transferred in and come looking for excitement. Leon's got no security at this point.

But he could.

All he needs to do is make that choice. Say a few words. Give in. Give up. Which is also a really nice thought, because Leon is _tired_. Tired of the fear, tired of the uncertainty. Tired of bad memories and adrenalin crashes. Tired of shaking hands and these same four walls and not being able to count on his own fucking brain to tell him what's real or not. Tired of facing it all alone.

He wants to have a partner again. Someone to watch his back, to depend on and shoot people for him. He hasn't had another after Jack since the agency he works for seems to like him better as a lone agent, easy to smuggle in and out, easy to cut loose, and that's also something to think about. He's lost track of time with all the flashbacks, but he's pretty sure it's been a few months by now. Do they think he's dead? Do they even care beyond the inconvenience of having to replace him? Because he hasn't had any real friends since Jack, either, unless you count Hunnigan. He's been transferred around too often, sent on too many missions to make any deep attachments, so no-one's going to miss him. It's depressing, but this cell isn't so far from what his life has been like working for the government. He can't go where he wants, the scenery is ugly, the other people are jerks, and the pay sucks.

Hell, if you think about it, this place is actually better - he gets free catering.

Good quality catering, and he wonders if that's Jack's doing, Jack picking what Leon should eat and drink. He used to do it back then, too, convinced that Leon wasn't finished growing and intent on putting some muscle on Leon's lean frame.

It sure seems like it. Breakfast is all of Leon's favourites: Sausage and eggs and hashbrowns, melon slices, a glass of orange juice. Jack sucking up some more, maybe? Leon smiles at the thought. Put it that way, and it seems kinda a shame to let it get cold. It makes him want to eat it. It makes him want to get out of bed.

So he does.

Because he's already decided, hasn't he?

The proverbial weight on his shoulders doesn't so much lift as _shift_ at the realization. Yeah, he's still trapped, not to mention probably fucked up beyond repair after all of this. But Leon's a survivor, adaptable. Rage, denial, pain. He's been through it. Now comes the last step: acceptance, and moving on.

He ignores breakfast for a moment longer. Barefoot and in nothing but a tanktop and sweatpants, he goes over to the mirror and looks himself in the face, in the eyes. He wants to be able to keep doing this. He wants to hold on to any shred of pride he'll have left.

Jack Krauser's woman.

He looks at himself, thinks the words. Twitches. Grits his teeth and tries again. Jack Krauser's woman, and it's not _that_ bad, right? No worse then Jack Krauser's rookie tag-along from way back when. Jack Krauser's woman, and what's wrong with being a woman, anyways? Ada and Claire and Hunnigan - he respects them. He can respect himself. Jack Krauser's woman, and if anyone makes an issue of it Leon can have Jack shoot them.

Though he reserves the right to personally gut anyone who calls him Mrs Krauser.

And it won't be forever, he tells himself. Coaxing. It's just until he escapes. Fucked up or not, once he's out of here he'll figure out some way to put it behind him the way he does everything else, slip back into his old life, call in a few favours to have this place burnt to ashes. No-one'll know.

For now, it's okay to give in.

So for now, as- as Jack's woman, he should probably eat the food Jack's provided right? Since Jack is-

"Shit. This makes Jack my 'man', doesn't it?" A flash of horror flits across his face and he's got the brief irrational thought that it's a good thing the last of his family died while he was in Police Academy because it would be hell to explain this. As it is, he'll be lucky if six generations of Kennedys don't come back from the dead in sheer outrage and box his ears - there's no way Nana Kennedy would ever have approved of someone like Jack for her little Leon, and she'd be sure to haul the rest of them out of their graves when she crawled out of hers. ". . . at least it's not the teen pregnancy scandal they all thought I'd get into once I hit the city."

It's a weird set of thoughts to take with him as he has breakfast. Curled up on the floor and pressed against the bars, he eats slowly, hampered by the handcuffs. The food isn't drugged this time, he knows. Jack won't want to bring back yesterday's memories.

As he eats, things shift inside his mind. He's forcing himself to try to heal around the broken bits that are all that's left of his integrity and independence, and he gets that feeling again, the one he had after Jack first washed him. Of something jagged and ugly trapped inside him by his own flesh.

He wonders if it'll ache the way real shrapnel does. He wonders if it'll fester or simply degrade, go unnoticed for the rest of his life.

He drinks his orange juice and tells himself it doesn't matter.

Breakfast is good, even if it's gotten cold. He's stripping the last sweet dregs from the melon rind when he hears Jack walking down the hall toward him. Being quiet, being slow. Stealth, and Leon lets Jack think it's working. Wonders what Jack will do after what's happened and Leon's vulnerable like this, pressed to the bars with his back turned.

The hand settling on the base of Leon's neck is unexpected, so his jerk is of real surprise. He goes still as Jack slides it up, fingers combing through Leon's hair, and there's a moment when Leon's locked in place, fighting to resist and fighting to give in. Old habits dying hard. And then he's past it, and he leans back into the touch, presses himself against the bars in invitation for more. Grip in his hair, and Jack forces him to tilt his head back, look up at him.

Yeah. No-one's fooling anyone here. Jack knows Leon heard him, let him come up behind him. Leon knows Jack's figured out why. It just needs to be said.

"The cuffs get too tight overnight?" asks Jack. He reaches down and through the bars, and Leon lifts his hands to let him check them.

"They're fine." There some bruising but the scars haven't re-opened.

"You want 'em off yet?"

"Not really."

Jack grunts and gives the cuffs a tug. "I won't let you wear them all day, Leon. You'll fuck up your wrists for good."

"No kidding. These things are a bitch, Jack. I know you like seeing me bleeding, but I think it's time we switched to the fuzzy kind."

". . . now there's an intriguing request." Jack's eyes narrow to slits of blue. "There a reason I should spoil you with that kind of luxury, Comrade?"

Leon swallows. Says, too casual: "Call it an investment. Something to keep your woman from wrecking her pretty wrists."

Pain, as Jack's fingers tighten convulsively in Leon's hair, and Leon gasps and grits his teeth and jerks his hands back. Glares up into Jack's face, Jack's eyes, who's pupils have blown so wide there's nothing but the thinnest ring of blue around them.

"You rip my hair out and I'll go looking for someone else to take care of me," he snaps.

"Try it and I'll carve my name into your ass," Jack snarls back. His nostrils flare and his fingers tighten even more as he seems to swell with a display of bristling possessiveness. "_My woman_'s got no business going anywhere near other men."

Leon snorts. "What, I'm supposed to stay away from half the population for the rest of my life? Great plan, Jack! Maybe you can stash me in a convent when we're not fucking. I'll really blend in with the nuns."

And Jack laughs at that. "I already did that, remember? In Russia."

Which has Leon sniggering, too, because he does remember and it was actually pretty funny, though at the time he'd been pissed about being locked in the bell tower just because of a few broken ribs. "Yeah. Yeah, I remember that. You scared the crap out of the Mother Superior - I still wanna know what you said to her." He smiles. "It pissed me off, but I have to admit you were right to do it. You- you took good care of me back then. I-" He has to pause for a moment. Closes his eyes to scrape together enough courage.

Then he opens them, and lets himself fall. "I- I want you to . . . take care of me again, Jack." Deep breath. There is nothing beneath him, nothing around him. Just this fear, this surrender, and Jack. "I'll be your partner again. Your- your woman."

It's satisfaction that has Jack narrowing his eyes now, and his grip on Leon's hair gentles. All he says is, "About time," but his voice is a deep, rich purr and tension drains from his shoulders. His other hand strokes a line up the centre of Leon's chest, moves up Leon's throat, his face, to touch Leon's mouth, press fingers past Leon's lips.

Leon bites at them gently. Laps at the pads, the scarred knuckles the way he used to before Jack vanished from his life. He sets the breakfast tray aside and rises to his knees, then to his feet, and glues himself to the bars. Jack presses back from the other side, and they spend long moments straining against the barrier between them, doing their best to rub against one another's heat as Leon tongues Jack's fingers. He grips the bars with his cuffed hands convulsively, shudders, slips them though a gap in the bars and grabs for Jack's dick and- mmm, yes. Solid heat in Leon's hands, familiar and wonderful, and he rubs his knuckles up and down the length of it, makes Jack swear and buck his hips.

He laughs around Jack's fingers.

Jack is sweating, beads of it rolling down his temples, and his breathing is slow and deep when he pulls away from Leon. Rubs his spit-damp fingers together. Adjusts his straining cock in his pants.

"Finish your breakfast," he says, walking away stiff gaited, awkward. "I've got something to go get."

Leon can't help but grin as he watches Jack leave. It's good to know he hasn't lost his touch.

By the time Leon is finished breakfast Jack is back, and carrying a small, flat steel case. He opens the cell door and slips inside. Says, "On the bed, Woman."

The flinch that goes through Leon is impossible to stop, a total reflex paired with bared teeth and an instant tension despite his own wishes. Again, old habits, and Leon forces them back, and back some more. He can do this - has done this with countless of other unwanted reactions after Raccoon. It might take days, maybe even weeks, but in the end he'll re-write himself. For now, he makes himself relax and breathe deep. Tells himself this is what he wants. That it's a tag to be proud of, a title, a _good thing_, because he knows repetition is the key to believing. Goes and sits on the bed and looks at Jack, expectant.

Jack gives him slight smirk, a knowing tilt of the head. "Don't worry, Leon. I know it won't come easy. You're not the type to roll over without a fight, after all. But that's why I've got this." He lifts the case and waggles it. Comes and sits beside Leon on the bed. "Figured I'd kill two birds with one stone. Mark you as my woman . . . and give you a little something to help you remember your place with at the same time."

". . . at least there's no Umbrella logo on the box," Leon mutters, eyeing the case which has suddenly become something ominous and dreadful.

Jack just snorts and pops the catch. Lifts the lid. Shows off what's inside.

Leon stares at it blankly a moment because he can't quite figure out- Wait. "A piercing gun? Jack-"

"Just your ears," Jack tells him. "I don't have the finesse for a needle, so I'm using a shopping mall special. You'll sit still and let me, a good little woman." He pets Leon's face soothingly, the back of his hand gentle as it slides along Leon's cheek. Down, and his fingers settle in the dip at the base of Leon's throat. "Or you can make a fuss. There's still time to go trade this in for a dog collar."

"And miss out on the chance to wear glittery ladybug studs?" Leon snarks. "Like I could pass this up! Or did you get me happyfaces?"

"Actually, I got you these." Krauser pulls a jewlery box from his belt pouch and shoves it at him. Palm-sized and covered in black velvet, and when Leon opens it there's a pair of simple silver drop earrings, plain bars maybe three inches long with complicated hook backings. "The backings'll keep them locked in, so you can sleep in 'em. And it's not like you move around in your sleep much, anyways, so there shouldn't be a problem."

Is it really that hard to pick up an earing? Because Leon keeps fumbling as he tries to lift one out. His fingers feel cold and clumsy. And when he finally does manage it the long line of silver sways as the drop earing trembles along with his hand.

Spark of rage at the sight, frustration at himself and his lack of control. He's decided. He's _decided_, and this is nothing. It means nothing. Even piercings heal over in time, after all. This isn't permanent.

But- for right now, this is his key to survival. And so, for right now- it means everything. It is a symbol of everything he wants and needs, everything he craves, and everything he will become.

Jack Krauser's woman.

"They're nice," he says.

"Glad you like 'em, since you'll be wearing them for the rest of your life." Jack bats Leon's hand down, grips Leon's chin. "Once those go in they aren't going to come out, Leon." He's got a ballpoint pen in the other hand and marks the centre of Leon's left earlobe. Squints. Marks the other, then leans back to check if his work is even.

"Except when they get torn out in the first fight I'm in."

Jack hits him for that. Not hard, just a smack across the mouth with splayed fingers, and his voice isn't even angry when he tells Leon: "Don't say stupid shit. You're my woman. No-one'll rip out your earrings in a fight because anyone who tries'll have to go through me first. You forgotten how this pair-up works? If I don't kill 'em outright I'll at least buy you enough time to get out your gun and shoot 'em yourself."

Leon's breath catches. Jack's the only person willing to do the shielding for Leon, the only person willing to step between him and danger instead of pushing him to be the hero, and after every thing that's happened, the matter-of-fact way that he says it is just-

It makes Leon want to kiss him. No, it makes Leon want to _fuck_ him. Not the one-sided stuff Jack's been indulging in, but actual sex where they're both naked and Leon gets to touch back, check to see if Jack's still got those dimples at the base of his spine, find out if Jack really does have an Umbrella logo tattooed on his ass.

It makes him forget, if only for a moment, that this is just supposed to be a last ditch effort to survive. Temporary. In that moment, Leon wants this to be forever.

Jack finishes wiping down the gun with the disinfectant pad that'd been tucked into the case. He's still got the shadow of a smirk on his face. Leon thinks about licking the twist and hitch of it. Use his tongue to trace Jack's lower lip. The fantasy keeps him quiet as Jack brings up the gun and pierces first one ear, then the other - his gaze doesn't even flicker at the brief pain, just stays locked on Jack.

The studs only stay in long enough for Jack to dose him with a shot of green herb from the piercing kit, and it seems like a waste to use it this way but it means Jack can pull out the studs almost immediately and Leon's got a pair of perfect holes in his ears. And then the earrings go in.

It's a bit of a fumble. Jack's obviously never done this, and neither has Leon so he can't exactly help. Wouldn't even if he could, because somehow this is something Jack needs to do alone. A bit of pulling, a bit of pain as he stabs Leon a few times with the things, but they both go in eventually, backs snapped shut and the weight of them tugging at Leon's ears.

Jack pulls away and bares his teeth in a broad, hungry smile. "There. Now my woman's a real lady."

Leon just snorts and rolls his eyes, tosses his head to get the hair from his eyes and pauses. Weird sensation, the earrings swing with the motion of his head, their cool mental brushing a soft caress against his jaw. Unexpectedly pleasing, it sends a shiver though him. Curious, he reaches up tentatively to touch and tug at one of them, rolls the bar in his fingers. He's still playing with them, turning his head slowly to get used to the feel of them swaying as Jack finishes putting away the piercing gun and the rest of the kit.

"They look good on you," Jack tells him. "Knew they would with a face like yours." The kit is tossed carelessly to the floor, and he pushes his fingers through Leon's bangs, brushing them away from his face. "I always wanted to see you like this, even back then. All that fire and too goddamn pretty, and still so fucked up," Jack continues, pulling Leon close against his chest. "Keeping the rest of the crew away from you was stone bitch. I used to daydream about marking you like this so they'd know to keep their dicks to themselves without me having to beat it into them every other day."

"Shit. So that's why Denvers stopped talking to-" They kiss. Nothing deep, just enjoying the feeling of each other's mouths a moment.

Low rumble in Jack's throat as he nuzzles Leon's jaw, slides his hands under Leon's tanktop to rub his sides, his belly. "But this is better. You'd never have been my woman back then. Too proud, and anyways regulations would have split us up if they found out we'd been fucking. Now, though, you're exactly what you should have been all along. _Mine_," he growls, and lips at Leon's right earing, takes it into his mouth and sucks at the lobe, tugs with his tongue and Leon groans, arches into it. Rubs himself against Jack's chest like a cat. Squirms his way to sitting him Jack's lap, legs wrapping around Jack's hips and cuffed hands clutching at the tight fabric of Jack's black T-shirt.

"You're taking this off," says Leon, voice going deeper, richer with need and lust.

Jack laughs, indulges him and peels off the T-shirt, tosses it to the floor. His Umbrella issue dogtags clink on the chain around his neck.

Leon hums approval. Skims his thumbs down the trail of hair arrowing from Jack's navel to his belt line, dip them just under the waist of Jack's pants before stroking back up again. More laughter, and Leon loves how it makes those abs move and clench. Shifts forward in Jack's lap, rocks his cock against them and it's wonderful, so good to feel the living warmth of it, to grind forward and get that rush of pleasure through his bones and feel the fear he hadn't even realized was in him snuff out. He's so fucked up- PTSD has killed any kind of sex with real women, and he realizes now he'd be afraid the rape would have taken _this_ from him as well, murder the last bit of pleasure he can have from another human being.

But it didn't. Because this is Jack, it's _Jack_ and it's absolutely nothing like what those bastards did to him. Leon's wrists are bound and he's in an Umbrella cell but it doesn't matter because he feels safer here with Jack wrapping his arms around him than he did in his own bed back in the government paid apartment he use to live in. Good and sweet and fun, spiced with just the right kind of pain. It's never been easier to push away past trauma and focus on right now as Jack clutches him too hard, pinches brutally at Leon's sides, leaves a scattering of bite marks on Leon's shoulders like red lace.

They tumble sideways onto the bed, mouthing each other's skin, breathing each other's scent. Leon fighting to get Jack's belt undone. Jack fighting to rip away Leon's sweatpants. Both of them getting tangled in the other, biting and swearing with frustration. God, they used to do exactly this, and it isn't right that Leon can only have it again when his world has been shredded and his soul tied in knots. It isn't fair that Umbrella's baited it's trap this way. He can't help but fall for it.

Belt, boots, socks. Both their pants and Jack's Y-fronts go tumbling onto the floor to join Jack's T-shirt, and Leon's tanktop follows right after when Jack just rips through the straps and peels it off him. Only two things stay with them: the lube Jack had tucked into a pocket, and Jack's knife unsheathed and glittering, their favourite sex toy.

"Hold this," says Jack and shoves the knife between Leon's teeth. They clamp down on the blade tight, tight as Jack's fingers dip between Leon's legs for a rough bit of prep. Jack likes to see Leon's face twisted in pain so it's never quite as much as it should be. Leon doesn't mind, though. Likes the rough action, the haste, the burn of stretching muscles. Jack finishes in moments and takes back his knife. Asks, "How'd you want it?"

"From behind." He wants to have something solid, something safe at his back.

"What, not missionary? And here I was hoping I'd found a good, wholesome woman to keep."

Leon snorts and tosses his hair again, sets his earrings swaying. Sneers at Krauser. "Sorry, but Suzy-homemaker was the one in the apartment across the hall. You can alway go back and kidnap _her_ if you want vanilla."

"Vanilla isn't my flavour," says Jack, and licks a wet stripe up the length of Leon's neck. "You know me. I like something with a little more bite." Sting, then, as Jack lets his knife kiss Leon's skin, cutting him, making him bleed in a thin line at the base of his nape, and Leon's blood is hot, hot and muddy with lust as it wells up for Jack to suckle.

"Ngh~ yeah . . . " Leon breaths. Hums in satisfaction, and eagerly takes the knife between his teeth again so Jack can shift them into position. Not exactly graceful, maybe, but Jack's strong enough to get them sorted out without too much fuss, spooning on the bed. Then it's just a matter of pressing Jack's dick into Leon, a slow filling of his ass, his body. And- yeah, there it is. The ache of stretching muscle, sweet glaze of pain over the pleasure. It makes him shudder and grit his teeth on the knife. It makes him twist his hands in the cuffs and squirm back against Jack, which of course gets them moving, fucking.

Sex. Hot skin to hot skin, Jack's dogtags trapped between them, and they're so flushed with lust that the metal seems chill until the press of their bodies warms it to blood-heat. No real leverage on their sides like this, so they tangle their legs to tug each other closer that way, mingled sweat slicking the slide between Leon's back and Jack's chest.

Jack's right arm is trapped under Leon's weight, cradling him and tugging at a nipple, his left reclaims the knife and he says, "Move your arm." Lips at Leon's earing again. Still a strange feeling but it sends ripples of pleasure down Leon's spine. He shudders, ass clenching around Jack's dick and pressing himself back, back against Jack as hard as he can for more and then he yelps and bucks, bites his tongue, as Jack cuts a stinging line high up on Leon's ribs.

Blood wells up. Barely a scratch. And just as the sensation fades Jack gives him another, on the arm this time, the tender inside of his elbow, and then again and again, along his back, his arms, legs and hips. Anywhere Jack can reach. It's just enough to make Leon jerk as they fuck, add an extra bit of edge to it, get him to buck sweetly, bleed prettily, make bitten off gasps and swear softly for Jack.

He's a twisting, quivering mess. Sweat and blood on his skin. His mouth is open, lips wet and glistening as he pants. Damp hair sticking to his face. Jack's saying something, telling him something, but it's just noise to Leon: deep, rolling thunder on his horizon before the lightning of his orgasm hits, and he's lost in the brief storm of it.

When he comes back to himself, wrung out and breathless, Jack's still moving, reaching for his own peak. Leon grunts and rolls his hips. Afterglow has his mind in a fog, but he does his best to push past it and do something other the lie there limp. Moves with and against Jack, breathing with the same in-and-out rhythm of their sex until it falters, speeds, and then breaks: Jack thrusts into him sharply, spills into Leon in a hot flood.

He stays there for long heartbeats afterwards, dick-deep in Leon's ass, kissing and biting and sucking at Leon's nape, chill of the knife blade now pressed harmlessly to Leon's flank. He's slow to pull out and pull away, and when he finally does it's only to settle on his back, and then curl the arm he'd had trapped under Leon to roll him onto Jack's chest.

Sweat and blood and come. They go to sleep like this and it'll be absolutely disgusting when they wake up. But Leon's sprawled out on Jack's chest, with Jack's heartbeat sounding in his ears and Jack's arm wrapped around him, Jack's scent heavy in the air and Leon feels warm and sated and _safe_, safe for the first time in God knows how long so, well, screw it. Jack'll wash him again if he needs it. Right?

For now, he's content to lie in Jack's embrace and let the other man pet him, slower and slower as Jack falls asleep. Leon's close to nodding of himself, actually. Is right on the edge of sleep when a sudden realization jerks him back.

The knife.

Jack's knife.

_Leon can reach it. _

Jack's just jabbed it into the mattress by his side. And he's out now, asleep, probably wont wake up for hours after such a good fuck so-

So Leon could use it. Reach over and grab it and slit Krauser's throat. Hell, Krauser might even have brought that shitty little gun he'd shot Leon in the legs with so long ago, and a gun and a knife is all Leon's ever needed.

Deep, deep shudder as the temptation surges through him, his hands already halfway to the hilt and he jerks them back, presses his face to the solid bulk of Jack's chest, clenches his eyes shut tight and tries block out the images, the fantasies.

Security here is too good, he knows. He won't get past the cameras and the automated doors with just a knife, and that piece of crap gun would be more of a hindrance then help. And killing Krauser-

Terror wells up withing him, dark waters of fear and blind panic, and he clutches at Jack like a man with a life raft. He can't. He _can't_, because- because he's got no fallback plan and anyways it's way too soon. This is probably just some sick test with Umbrella scientists watching through the cameras, Jack is faking being asleep, and Leon's on much too thin ice to even think of wrecking his one chance at safety.

No.

Not tonight.

There'll be other chances, he tells himself. Other nights. As soon as Leon's got an escape he'll take it, and when he finally does sink the knife into Krauser's face it'll be all the sweeter after the wait.

So it's okay if it's not tonight. If it's not right now. If Leon lays back down and nuzzles into the crook of Jack's neck and lets himself be Jack's woman. It's okay, because it's not forever. Just a bit longer. Just a few more weeks, tops.

He tells himself that over and over as he falls asleep, because repetition is the key to believing.

No matter how big the lie.


	7. Take You Home

Iron bars have no business feeling like a white picket fence, but it's a connection Leon can't help making in this mirror world he's living in. A world where Leon's safe and cared for. A world where he's _happy_.

God.

He'd felt like he was falling when he gave in to Jack. Tumbling down into darkness he wasn't sure he'd ever climb out of, Alice down a rabbit hole, and yeah, that's pretty much bang on because everything's been flipped on him and nothing feels quite right. At this point, he's halfway convinced 'We're all mad here' is Umbrella's corporate motto. It sure seems to be the theme for their recruitment drive.

He just- He hadn't known what to expect when he first gave in, but it definitely wasn't this- this weird _domestic bliss_. He'd thought it was just a trophy thing, a weakness thing, and that _is_ in this but- but Jack is- He-

Damn. Call it what it is. Jack _comes home_ to Leon at night. Every night. Just shows up and slips into Leon's cell, crashes on the bed and kicks off his boots and he's _brought their damn dinner_. They eat together now. Slouched side by side on the bed, and Jack brings beer too so they drink and they talk about his day. Laugh over idiots, talk shit about morons, play cards. Fuck like they're the only ones in the cell block, which is actually pretty easy since the other inmates are dead quiet as Jack picks Leon up and screws him up against the wall, ploughs into him when he's face down and ass up on the bed. They're too scared of Jack to mouth off.

And Jack stays the night. Every night. Sprawls out on the mattress and pulls Leon up to curl on his chest, face tucked into the crook of Jack's throat. Cuddling. Which is just-

Just like old times, but better. The words comes back to haunt Leon as he deals out a game of Solitaire on the floor and it's total bullshit. Meaningless propaganda from a psycho who's drunk too much of Umbrella's Koolaid. Five of clubs, three of diamonds, two of diamonds. The talk, the food, the sex is all to make Leon pliant, and nothing more. To make him forget. To make him what he's pretending to be. Ace of Spades, Queen of Hearts, and he pauses and brings up the card. Stares into that cold, printed face.

It's bullshit, but it's bullshit Leon has to let himself believe. The only way out of this maze is if he walks the line between surrender and resistance, lets himself fall just far enough. Jack knows him too well for Leon to fake it completely.

He just wishes it wasn't so _easy_. So goddamn _terrifyingly_ easy to be the queen of Jack's castle, welcoming him home with open arms and spread legs, and he's really become kind of a whore here, hasn't he? Selling himself like this for a chance at freedom, and doing it gladly. Some 'good, wholesome woman' he is . . .

His fingers crumple the card and he's surprised. Hadn't even thought to do it, and he swallows nervously at his outburst. At least this one was harmless, but he's got to stop them completely. A full blown fit could wreck everything, lose him his chance at freedom and safety, lose him _Jack_, and he knows it, he _knows_ he's got to smother his rage and stop these fits, but he never sees them coming. Never knows what'll set him off and just how he'll react.

And in the rare moments he forces himself to be honest about this whole mess he's got to admit that he's scared of losing his anger. It's the last touchstone he has with his previous life, the last reminder he's got of what it's like to think for himself, to be independent and proud and-

-and he can still be proud of himself. Tells himself that as he smooths out the card, needs to believe it. He's still something worth fighting for. He's not yet a lost cause. And all this is just an act, pure survival.

Right?

No answer from the battered Queen of Hearts. None from the other cards scattered on the floor in front of him. Just the crude mutterings of his inmate neighbours, and dimly, the wails of his fears clawing at the back of his mind.

He wants Jack. Wants him here and talking, touching. Because when Jack's around Leon can just shut everything off. All these doubts and second guesses, the worry that he's going too far or not far enough fades into background noise as he focuses on keeping Jack happy, on keeping himself alive.

No watch in this little den, but Leon's internal clock insists that Jack won't be back for hours, and it makes Leon twitchy with impatience. Has him pushing to his feet and pacing his cage restlessly.

He's read every magazine at least three times, played Solitaire so often the cards are tattered, cleaned every stitch of laundry he's been given. There is nothing to _do_, and he can't even sleep because he's wired. All he's got left is training and he's mind-numbly bored of even that, the routine so ingrained at this point that he dreams about it sometimes. But it at least keeps him in shape, so he forces himself through it anyways.

Basic stretches first, of course. Then push-ups and sit-ups and squats, jogging in place and kicks and punches. After that the throws, which he has to mime out awkwardly without a partner. Hand to hand and knife routines come last, a slow dance that speeds up with every repetition, until his limbs blur through the motions.

He goes through the ritual until he's sweating. Repeats it until his body feels like lead, until the air burns in his lungs, until his hands shake and his baggy hand-me-downs from Jack stick to him, soaked through. Goes beyond even that, pushing himself in the hope of burning off his nerves, his frustration, until his mind finally blanks and he's in the weird high he always hits when he goes just that much farther then he really should. Familiar feeling he rode through Raccoon, through Basic Training and Hell Week and the whole Plagas craze.

There's no time, and no pain, and no goal other then just to keep going.

So he does.

Until Jack walks down the hall, footsteps breaking through Leon's spell and Leon stumbles in the middle of his form. Takes a few shaking steps toward the bars and has to stop, swaying. Obviously he's out of shape because it shouldn't have hit him that bad-

"Shit."

Is that Jack, or himself? Hard to tell with his heartbeat so loud in his ears, but his breathing is harsh and deep, ripped from his chest, so it was probably Jack.

"What the hell have you been doing to yourself, Woman?"

Definitely Jack, and a smile scrambles for purchase on Leon's face past the sweat and exhaustion. "Hey. Sorry. Ran- ran out of knitting yarn," he gasps out. "Nothing else to do."

Jack doesn't even bother with the cuffs. Just comes straight in. "Cool down stretches," he orders. "Now." And Leon's not even finished them before Jack's pushing the battered plastic mug from their dinner kit into Leon's hands. "Water," he says. "Drink it all, but slow."

It's disgusting and lukewarm, but even that's almost too cold for Leon as he does his best not to puke it right back up. He frowns. Just how long has he been working out?

He's made to drink twice more before he's done stretching, and then Jack is stripping off Leon's sweat-soaked clothing, towelling him down roughly with the bed sheet and muttering about dumbasses and cabin fever. Leon just slumps in Jack's hold, lets himself be pushed to sit on the edge of the bed, basks in the contact, in the physical presence of someone else. Puts on the fresh change of clothing he's handed. Eats what Jack gives him, and curls up against him when he sits as well.

"Missed you," is all he says.

"I can tell," Jack answers. "Overtraining isn't the answer to your boredom, though, Leon. If you're that hard up for entertainment then all you have to do is ask, and I'll bring you some."

"I- yeah. Yeah. Sorry. I just- I'm still not used to-"

Jack reaches up and runs his finger along the shell of Leon's ear. Toys with Leon's earring.

Leon shuts his eyes. Right. Jack will provide. It's his part in this sick game. Leon's just got to say the words. "Jack. I need something to do. Anything. I'm going nuts in here." Easy. It's easy, he tells himself. "Please."

He's rewarded with a kiss. Warm tongue slipped past his lips to stroke him, though only briefly. "I'll get you something tomorrow," Jack tells him after pulling back. "In the meantime, I did bring you a little extra treat for tonight." He pulls a magazine from the under the clutter on the dinner tray.

Newest issue of Leon's favourite gun mag, and he reaches for it eagerly. "You really do take good care of me," he breathes as his fingers close on the pages. He strokes the cover gleefully. It's got blurbs for new rifle scopes, grip mods for handguns, and coverage on a budding new arms company. September looks like a good month.

September.

It was . . . was it March when he was taken? Yeah. Yeah, it was March fifth. He'd had a dinner date the next day so he remembers. Has he really been here _seven months_? It seems longer. It seems shorter. It- He's lost track of time.

"You gonna read it, or just stare at it?"

"Why, d'you need it for your papier mache project? You should look into getting company funding for that. A big corporation like Umbrella's got a civic duty to promote the arts."

"Can't. Wesker's got all our extra resources diverted to the Africa project right now. So either read your mag or pass it here. I want to check out the bit on grip modifications."

Leon grunts and flips it open to the appropriate page. Glances over the article, and his lips twist at the photos of sleek little 9mms neatly lined up.

". . . what happened to my gun?"

"The custom piece? I've got it tucked away safe. Why? You miss it?"

"I- Yeah. Of course." How could he not?

But Jack hears the uncertainty in Leon's voice. "You want it back?"

And Leon hesitates.

A good 9mm is compact and practical, hardworking and discreet. Dead easy to scrounge up ammo for in a pinch, too, which is why he holds them so near and dear to his heart.

But the lesson learned from his old cop uniform has left its scars, and Leon flinches away from the thought of what he might see if he held another 9mm again. He's not being drugged any more, he's _not_ and so it shouldn't be an issue, but-

The RPD had issued him a 9mm, an ugly little VP70, and he'd been carrying it when he drove into Raccoon. He'd shot his first human with it. Never mind they were already technically dead, Leon hadn't known it at the time and he can still recall the echoing pit of horror that had opened up inside him in that moment. Remembers what it was like stealing ammo from the corpses of his fellow cops, people who should have been his co-workers. Remembers hoping the blood wouldn't gum up the works as his shaking hands jammed a gore spattered magazine into his pistol.

He's lived things and done things, seen things he desperately wants to stay in the past, but his old coping methods have been pretty well shattered. So.

"Not really."

Jack chuckles. "Bad memories, huh?"

"Like I even need to answer that." He tries for flippant, but the words still come out bitter. He never thought he'd be _gun-shy_ of all things, is pissed at finding yet another crack in his soul, and that custom piece had been a treasured memento to boot. The loss hits him harder the he'd expected. Has to force himself not to rip the magazine pages.

"You won't need it," Jack reminds him. Strokes Leon's face. "You're my sniper, remember? Nothing but the long gun for you, Woman."

Leon snorts, but still tries to make himself smile and nod, and Jack's pleased with him for that. Pulls him closer and into his lap, and the magazine falls to the floor as other things take priority. And for the next little while Leon's finally able to stop thinking as Jack fucks him into utter exhaustion.

Next morning he wakes up late and alone. Not entirely surprising. But the gym bag over by the bars is, and Leon peels himself out of bed and slinks over to it, opens it to find Jack's clothes and extra soap, and a note:

_Wash them._

. . . that bastard. Leon seethes, grinds his teeth and twists the note into an ugly paper knot. But he still pulls out Jack's laundry and starts sorting through it, because he'd said he'd do anything to keep busy at this point, and he'd meant it. Even if it means playing washerwoman out of a jail cell sink.

It sets the tone from then on. Jack brings him little treats in the evenings, and leaves him makework during the day. Domestic shit, mostly cleaning and mending, polishing Jack's damned boots, but it's something to do and so Leon gives it his all. He's turning into Jack's housewife but it's not like he has much of a choice - the chores and his own training regime are just barely enough to keep him from going utterly stir crazy. He starts to understand how a housewife can become so fixated on her husband, can become absolutely neurotic about the state of her home, can toss common sense aside and fuck the milkman. Hell, _Leon'd_ fuck a milkman if one showed up, just for something different to do!

But it's worth it, right? It's worth it to make progress, to stay alive. To have Jack come home to him and leave hickies on Leon's shoulders and keep him safe from whatever Umbrella has hanging over Leon's head. Their routine has settled into something that's actually really comfortable, and Leon doesn't even have to wear the cuffs anymore. Not unless he asks to, something he only does when he's desperate, shaken from nightmares and memories and needing just an edge of reassurance, and anyways, what's important is that he's making progress: Jack trusts him.

Precious, that. And Leon has to struggle sometimes to keep from flushing it all away, grabbing for Jack's knife or trying to strangle the man with his bare hands but the need is slowly dying. He's finally getting a handle on his rage.

He can do this. He can _do_ this, but he feels like he's slowly losing his footing and he's not quite sure how to fix that. Is terrified, because he doesn't flinch anymore at being called 'Woman'. Even every so often finds himself preening, smiling at it. Takes an obscure kind of pride at how he keeps house because it's fucked up but he does it _well_ and he looks up one afternoon from washing Jack's socks and-

-and he realizes that he's happy doing even this, and he's got no idea what the hell is wrong with him. Grips the sink as his legs start to shake, and he stares at his blurry reflection in the steel mirror, sees the long silver lines of the goddamn earrings and just breaks, right there.

Everything in the cell goes with him.

Sheets and blankets are torn from the mattress and then simply torn, ripped into ugly strips, useless. Jack's and Leon's spare clothing go right after it, and the wreckage is tossed carelessly about as Leon goes for the magazines next to crumple their pages and stomp on their covers. The playing cards get scattered, the half empty beer bottles from last night smashed, the mattress flipped up and kicked to shit until springs break and stuffing oozes out of it. The pillows are gutted. All his soap and shampoo gets smeared across the floor and at some point he even manages to pry the steel mirror lose from the wall.

His tiny world is in pieces about him and he's breathing hard, gulping air and still shaking. Backs away from the sight and goes to huddle in a corner by the bars, knees drawn up to his chest, and runs his fingers through his hair over and over as he fights back panic.

He's fucked things up. Doesn't know how he could have lost it this badly and he doesn't know what he'll tell Jack. Won't get another chance at this. They're going to kill him. No, worse, they're going to take him apart and remake him in Umbrella's twisted image, gut him and fill him with pus and worms and all because Leon couldn't suck it up, couldn't even hack something as easy as playing housewife.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

And they're talking about him. The other inmates, that is. Leon's finally learned to block them out most times but he's shaken so badly now that he can't help but hear the mutters and the laughter. Buries his face in his knees and grits his teeth and wonders if Jack will throw him back in with those two-legged wolves as punishment, as a last ditch effort to break Leon properly. Broods over it, trembling, for minutes. For hours.

Lunchtime. And all the cells but his unlock. Oh. God.

Animals. They're all animals, able to sense weakness, and they clutter around his cell. Jack isn't here to protect him this time. Jack isn't here, and Leon doesn't know just how much he can take, even with the bars between them, even-

"Lookit him. Little faggot's gonna cry."

Jeering, laughter. "What's got you so upset, Princess?"

"You mess up the laundry? That what's got you so sad?" one of them croons.

"You boyfriend ain't gonna be thrilled to see you wrecked the house."

"Fuck, yeah. If my woman wrecked the house like this I'd take a belt to her," someone else adds, and that hits too close. Leon twitches. Too obvious about it, because they pounce.

"Belt nothing, I'd break her fuckin' face with my bare hands."

"Oh, I wanna see that. I wanna see the Big Man make his Princess a bloody smear across the floor."

"Can't do that, the little faggot would like it too much. I say he just shoots him."

"I say he gives him back to _us_."

Shudder.

"Ooooh, oh yeah. Yeah, that'd be good. I still remember what it was like when we got to welcome him in. Bet he remembers, too. Dontcha, Piggy? Look at me. C'mon, look at me."

And despite himself, Leon's head raises, his eyes lock on the jackass who's talking to him now. Closer then any of the others. Right up beside the bars, leaning on them as he leers down at Leon.

"That's right. Gosh, you're _are_ pretty all dolled up and teary-eyed. You remember me? I jerked you off your first day in after you asked so nicely. Yeah~ yeah, I can see you remember. Liked it, didn't you? I know you did. Little panting _bitch_. I hear him fucking you every goddamn night and how you ask for more. Kept trying to fight it, but look at you now, huh? Nothin' but a-," and the man's voice drips glee and venom as he draws the word out, "a _housewife_. You wash his undies, Girly?"

And it's the way he says it. The look in his eyes, the leer, the contempt for Leon's weakness- the _everything_, and Leon is on his feet and his hands jab past the bars and lock around the guy's throat and Leon is snarling, lips pulling back from white teeth. "Just because I wash my man's briefs doesn't mean I can't kick your ass, you sonuvabitch!" he howls. Yanks the man closer, braces himself against the bars for leverage and then slams him up against those bars over and over and over.

Teeth break, bruises blossom and blood flows from the man's shattered nose and Leon still doesn't let up. Feels they guy's neck crack and it's not enough, not enough even as Leon's adjusting his grip to claw at the guy's face, put out his eyes and tear at his ears, and Leon's still screaming. Senseless animal noise, mostly, though a few coherent words rip out of him:

"Asswipe hyenas never shut the fuck up. Just _shut_ the _fuck_ up! _There's nothing wrong with being a housewife!_"

Hysterical. He's completely hysterical and the body he's gripping is soon reduced to lifeless, bloody pulp but he can't seem to stop himself. Sobbing and howling. Still slamming the corpse up against the bars as if to try and yank it right through them. And he'd have kept it up until the body disintegrated into so much mulch but Jack is there, suddenly. Jack is jogging down the hall, swearing, and the inmates who'd been frozen in shock are fleeing before him to go huddle in their cells, doors clanging shut behind them and locking them back in.

He rips the body out of Leon's hands. Drops it to the floor, trash. Snakes his hand in past the bars to grip Leon's chin, make him look him in the face, and whatever he sees there has his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. He skims his gaze over the wrecked cell and grunts, but says nothing, and lets Leon go just long enough to slip into the cell with him.

Yes. _Yes_. Leon swarms into Jack's arms. This is good. _This_, at least, Leon understands. Jack is here, and so Leon can stop thinking, just do whatever Jack wants him to, make Jack happy and keep this from spiralling out of control any more then it already has. Jack is his rock. Jack is his world. Leon climbs him like a ferret up a pole, all frantic speed and grasping fingers, presses his lips to Jack's and grinds his body against him. Growls and whimpers and leaves bloody hand prints all over Jack's clothes and skin as he grips those broad shoulders.

"Easy. Easy, Leon," Jack rumbles when Leon pulls back from the kiss. His voice is soothing.

"Jack. Jack, I- shit. I'm sorry. Sorry, I just- he- it-" He shakes his head helplessly before he presses kisses to the length of Jack's throat. Finally notices the mess his bloodied hands are making. Disgusting. Tries to wipe the gore off on his pants and loses his balance, almost tumbles to the floor but Jack's holding him in place now. Big hands, strong hands. Right where Leon needs him, which makes Leon choke on mingled tears and laughter as he hides his face in the curve of Jack's neck and desperately tries for some kind of control as he shakes and shakes.

He's so messed up. Disgraceful. Pathetic. God only knows why Jack wants him at this point. _If_ Jack still wants him, that is.

Jack still wants him, right?

Sudden desperation has his hand arrowing down, messy fingers sliding past Jack's waistband, dipping into his Y-fronts to close around his cock and grip, pump. Instant reaction from Jack - he sucks in his breath sharply, hands tightening on Leon and dick twitching.

"Yeah, you still want me," Leon breathes. Relief makes him go limp in Jack's hold. "Good thing, too, 'cause no one else will at this point. I sure as hell don't."

"That what's got you so upset?" Still that careful, soothing voice. Leon remembers it from long ago, when Jack used it on him those rare nights at the beginning of Basic Training when the nightmares still came.

"No, I- Yeah. _Yes_. Jack. Everything is falling apart. I can't-" His hands go back to clinging to Jack's shoulders, a tight, brutal hold. Scared Jack will somehow vanish right out from under him. The words come pouring out: "Can't think straight anymore. Don't ask me to. Everything's getting so messed up, like it's all tangled in my head and I can't keep focused on what's right." He shudders, downright convulsive, but he manages a thin veneer of control and good humour, and even a tried chuckle. "Sorry 'bout the mess, but I don't have a clue why I did it. I just get so pissed off sometimes I freak out. At this point I can't even figure out _why_."

And Jack surprises him with laughter: deep, full throated chuckles. "'zat all that's bothering you, Leon? You're pissed off and you don't know why? Because I can answer that for you." He shifts his grip and pulls back enough to make Leon look him in the face. Locks their gazes - Leon's pinned by the pale blue glitter of Jack's eyes.

"You're pissed because you're afraid, and you've never liked being scared." Jack smirks, a twisted pull of the lips.

"I-" Yeah. Yeah, that Leon can't deny.

"You're scared because it feels it too easy to give in to this," Jack continues. "You're scared by how comfortable it feels, by how safe you are. Scared because you feel you're forgetting how this is fucked up and wrong."

All true, and it's reassuring to hear it spelled out so simply, to have the whole mess understood. Relief- his guard falters, leaves him open to what Jack says next:

"But you only think that way because of all the bullshit they fed you. Unhealthy fixations? Tch. It wouldn't be this easy, this _good_ if it wasn't right for you, Leon.

And who was telling you that all that crap, anyways? The same people who used blackmail to get you to sign up and government shrinks to keep you in line and did their best to keep you miserable. People who see you as nothing more then a tool to be used and then tossed aside. They haven't come for you, have they?"

The answer is torn from Leon's throat, soft-voiced and broken: ". . . no." No, they haven't come for him. Not his boss, not his co-workers, not his so-called backup. Not his contacts in the Anti-Umbrella league or any of the others he'd met after Raccoon.

Not even Ada, who had to know he was here. Working for Wesker as she was now, inside the framework of this Frankenstein corporation, there's no way she couldn't have known.

"They've hung you out to dry."

". . . yeah."

"They don't want you anymore."

That _hurts_. Sharp pain to Leon's soul, and his lips part for protests, but all that comes out is, "Guess not," because it's true and he can't blame them. He's gone down in a flaming wreck, let himself degenerate into some kind of psychotic savage, and who'd want an agent that badly damaged? Maybe if he'd kept it together they-

"Umbrella wants you," Jack says.

And that hurts too. Has Leon flinching and glancing away, but Jack grips Leon's jaw and forces his head back around, makes their eyes meet again.

"Umbrella wants you, Leon. And _I_ want you. I came to get you, didn't I? Took you right out of your apartment because I wanted you so much. And I've kept you here for months, worked on you, helped you see what they've done to you. Given you a home and provided for you. I've gotten you off. I've made you happy. Just like I promised."

"You were always honest," admits Leon. It's one of the things that's made fighting this so hard.

"Better then what we used to have is what I said, and I meant it. I'm going to make you happier then you've ever been, Leon. I'll give you the order and safety you've always craved. I'll even help you make it with your own two hands." His arms loosen, and he sets Leon on his own feet. Takes him by the hand and pulls him over to the cell door, opens it and then drags Leon right outside. Keeps tugging him till he's at the next cell over.

Dread frosts Leon's gut as he looks in at the frightened, ugly men inside. But before his imagination can work itself into fresh hysterics, Jack slips his knife out of it's belt sheath and- and-

And he presses the hilt into Leon's palm. Wraps his fingers around it, kisses them. Thumbs the lock on the cell door and it swings wide and open, and understanding dawns.

"Jack . . ."

"They're already dead, Leon. Their lives were forfeit the moment Umbrella brought them in. I'm just giving you the chance to enjoy the company benefits. You still remember what it was like to have them touch you and laugh, Leon? You still remember what kind of rotten meat these people are?"

The subtle adjustment, the tightening of Leon's fingers on the knife hilt is all the answer he makes. It's all the answer Jack needs.

"And they were death row inmates," Jack says. His voice is a low, intimate purr and his hand is hot, hot and tender on Leon's nape as he give Leon a gentle push forward into the cell. "They're dead anyway you slice it. Don't you think it's time that caught up with them?"

Past time, if Leon's honest. How often has he wished these assholes dead? How badly did he want their blood on his hands that first day, the day after, and all the days after that? And Jack is giving it to him. Jack is giving him this.

Something inside Leon is screaming.

It's easy to ignore, though. All the rage and the hate, all the humiliation he's endured over the grinding months because of these bastards - it can finally be erased. These sons of bitches will never touch him again after this, never touch _anyone_ ever again, and that is something Leon _wants_. Wants the way he wants his next breath.

He steps forward into that cell and the inmates are _terrified_. It twists their faces into caricature masks, has their hands clenching to white knuckles, makes Leon's heart swell with joy. He's smiling as he moves forward because these people are already dead, and all Leon's got to do is remind them.

Their heads shake in denial and they try to press themselves back into the wall. Leon's been there. Leon's lived that. These fuckers laughed at him for it. Guess they don't find it so funny now.

Are they begging? Pleading for their lives, trying to reason with him? Their lips are moving, but nothing seems to reach Leon's ears. Just the sound of his own blood rushing through his veins and his own heart beating, his breath, deep and ragged and his footsteps sharp and ringing.

One of them breaks and rushes him. It makes things easy - reflexes have Leon dodging to the side and planting the knife in the guy's kidney as he goes past before Leon's brain even fully registers the threat. The inmate crumples to the floor, howling and choking and clutching his gut, and Leon kicks him over onto his back to stare down at his face.

This man is already dead. By Leon's hand or Umbrella's, it's all the same.

He bends over, bats away grabbing fingers and slits the man's throat.

Warm spatter of blood on Leon's face and hands. All along the knife. He rises, and whatever it is the other prisoner sees in Leon's face it has him gagging and pale as Leon comes closer.

He kills that one up close and almost kindly, knife sinking into the man's sternum, flooding his lungs with blood before making him seize up, gasp, and die in Leon's grip, muddy hazel eyes going blank and empty.

Is something of Leon dying along with the light in those eyes? It's hard to say. Leon's missing so many pieces at this point that he's forgetting which ones are already gone. All he knows is that he feels vaguely sick, raw inside, but it fades as he turns to Jack and gets a smile. Leon is damaged and fucked up and filthy in every way now, but Jack still wants him. Jack still kisses him when he comes back to the cell door, licks the blood from Leon's cheek before leading him to the next cell.

This pair is even easier.

They go on like that. Leon killing living corpses, and it's just like Raccoon even though it's really not. Block out the noise and never mind they were once a person: they're nothing but meat, the walking dead, and Leon is putting them to rest.

Jack kisses him between each set. Touches him. Hand between Leon's legs, on Leon's ass. Tongue fucking Leon's mouth and fingers playing with Leon's hair, his earrings. Jack finds him pretty like this. Jack finds him goddamn _hot_ like this, purrs his approval into Leon's ears and sends him into the last cell with a pat on the butt.

Another death, and then it's time for the very last one. Leon's gutted the man and is watching him die, intestines hanging out on the floor and blood pooling in sticky-sick puddles. He's about to give the coup de grace when arms come around him from behind, Jack pressing up against Leon, hard cock digging into Leon's ass.

"Beautiful," Jack says, and licks the shell of Leon's ear. Bites it, gently. Wraps his hand around Leon's on the knife handle, and together they kneel and sink the blade hilt-deep into the man's eye socket.

Squish. Blood and viscous fluid spatter everywhere as the man thrashes in brief, frantic death throes, heels slapping once on the cell floor before he goes limp and still and dead.

"Well, that was gross," says Leon before he quite registers how awful he's being.

More laughter from Jack, and this time it's his turn to go for the crotch as he stuffs his hand down the front of Leon's pants. This is no casual grope, though: it's a full on handjob, tight and not-quite slick enough with sweat, with other things best not thought about, Jack's free arm wrapping around Leon's middle to keep him in place.

Goddamn obscene to do it here in the cell with dead men, and covered with their blood besides. The corpses' eyes seem to stare accusingly, but Leon can do nothing except tremble in Jack's arms as they kneel there on the floor by his last victim. His thighs twitch, he twists in Jack's grip as his cock is relentlessly pumped, and slowly he unfolds his legs to let them sprawl out across the floor.

"That's right. Just give in to me, Leon. You've let go of everything else, so one last thing isn't such a big deal, is it?"

One of Leon's bloody hands still clutches the knife, the other Jack's arm, their grip absolutely desperate because those are the only things that seem real right now. He gasps. Arches, head thrown back, and makes the softest sounds - breathy little moans that hitch in his chest, his throat.

"Yeah, that's what I'm talkin' about. There's no shame in a woman getting off on her man."

No. No shame. Because Leon is still proud of himself. Can still look at himself in mirror and meet his own eyes when he calls himself Jack's woman. The things he's done, the lows he's sunk to - he's had no choice, and even if everyone else has tossed him aside for it, Jack hasn't.

Jack wants him.

"Jack," Leon mumbles. Thrusts into that almost-perfect grip, pistoning his hips and curling forward in on himself, crumpling, overloading with sensation. His earrings sway with the motion. His sight fogs. And he has to swallow twice before he can gasp out: "You abandon me after this and I'll feed you your own cock."

He comes. And everything left of himself spills out with his seed into Jack's hand. It's stupid, melodramatic, but Leon's half convinced the last glittering shards of his soul went out into that, is not quite sure how he feels when Jack pulls his hand back and licks the sticky release from it.

Well. It's all Jack's, anyways. Guess he can do whatever the hell he wants with it.

"I think it's time I took you home, Woman."

He's unresisting as Jack hauls him to his feet again. Gives the knife back without a fuss, though the loss of it makes him ache. And he follows along obediently as Jack guides him, hand on Leon's nape, out of the cell and back down the cell block to Leon's personal prison . . . falters, stumbling over his own feet because Jack is pushing him past it.

"What-?"

The hand Jack's got on Leon's nape gives him a gentle squeeze, thumb brushing at Leon's jaw, at his pulse point. "Said we're going home, Leon."

Home?

Momentary panic at the thought of being left, unwanted and alone in his old apartment hits him and makes his heart seize. Then understanding registers and his heartbeat falters for entirely different reasons. He snorts and glances away. Says, "Finally taking me back to your cave, huh? Guess that finishes up this little caveman ritual. At least you skipped the hair pulling after clubbing me over the head and kidnapping me."

He doesn't even bother fighting the smile that tugs at his lips.

Jack just looks at him sidelong and smirks.

They walk out of the prison together, Jack leading, Leon following. Out into the unfamiliar hallways of the Umbrella facility beyond, cold and bright and white. Their footsteps are loud, clear, and perfectly in synch.

 

\- End


End file.
